Laura Abbot (14 page)

He picked up his cell phone and punched in the Summer Haven number. Jay answered. After a few minutes of small talk, including Jay’s account of meeting Laurel at her shop, Ben drew a deep breath. “If your family is certain you want to proceed, I’ll coordinate the investigation of Laurel’s background.”

“I appreciate it, buddy. I’m sorry for the awkwardness of the whole thing, but we wouldn’t entrust something this important to anyone else.”

After Ben hung up, he couldn’t help wondering if he was wading into ethical quicksand.

O
N A LATE
J
UNE EVENING
, Laurel worked in the garden, stringing red, white and blue colored lights in the trees and shrubbery. Belleporte citizens took the Fourth of July seriously and there were planned activities ranging from a community picnic to water contests at the beach—all culminating in a fireworks display.

The past three weeks had been busy at The Gift Horse, so much so that Laurel had taken on Mrs. Arlo as part-time help. She had turned out to be a genius at arranging and rearranging the merchandise so that it looked fresh and appealing from week to week. One day she appeared with red-and-white ticking aprons with appliqued firecrackers to be worn by the staff. The next, she brought an Uncle Sam’s hat for the outdoor rocking horse. Laurel filled the horse’s oat bucket with small American flags and seasonal napkins and party favors. Daily the town filled with more and more tourists, lugging chairs to the beach, nursing sunburns and, thankfully, shopping.

Although Ben had been busy with some new work for the Sullivan Company, he’d been as attentive as his schedule would permit, often stopping by late in the afternoon to take her for a long walk on the beach. She sometimes wondered if she should have told him she loved him, but it wasn’t in her nature to be coy. She knew she shouldn’t expect a declaration from him. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t in a position to discuss the future. Yet. Everything was wonderful right now, so she could be patient, live each day as it came. She grinned wryly. Oh, yeah. Her philosophy of life was holding her in good stead.

Since that fateful night when she’d shot off her mouth about his family, he hadn’t mentioned much about them, except to say Mike was enrolled in summer school. His silence on the subject made it hard to tell whether he’d resented her opinions, which, she had to admit, were based on no experience whatsoever.

She finished hanging one string of lights and continued with the next, hoping the extension cord would reach. As she worked, she thought about Katherine’s plan to have an expanded tea in the garden on July 3, complete with sandwiches, punch and Greta’s specially decorated flag cake. Laurel hoped she wasn’t imposing on the woman’s generosity.

There. She finished stringing the lights and, wonder of wonders, when she went to plug in the cord, it reached the outlet. The trees and bushes were spangled with blinking lights. A spotlight installed under the eaves shone on the flag flying from the new flagpole.

Sighing with satisfaction, she stepped into the street to study the effect. The only thing she could think of that promised to be more dazzling was her upcoming date with Ben to watch the fireworks display. Of course no fireworks would hold a candle to the way she felt around him.

She chuckled. No doubt about it. Ellen was right. She was gone. Far gone.

W
HEN
B
EN STOPPED
by the house on the morning of the Fourth, he found Bess and his mother in the kitchen peeling potatoes. “Don’t you know this is a holiday?” he asked, pulling a chair up to the kitchen table.

Bess shot her mother a knowing look. “Isn’t that just like a man? He must think all that food at the picnic appears by magic.”

“Would an appreciative word help? No one makes potato salad as good as Mom’s.”

His mother pointed her paring knife at him. “Listen to you. Full of flattery.”

He held up his hands in the gesture of one falsely accused. “Just telling the truth, Mom, and nothing but.” The house seemed unnaturally quiet—no stereo, no wrestling boys, no sounds of running showers. “Where is everybody?”

“Megan’s at work,” his mother said.

Bess carefully carried the pot of potatoes to the stove. “Mike took the boys to the beach. To say they’re keyed up is putting it mildly.” She salted the potatoes and turned up the burner. Then in a quiet voice she added, “Darren’s coming to spend the day with us.”

He noticed his mother tactfully busying herself with chopping onions. “How do you feel about that?”

Bess sat down across from him. “I’m not sure. It seems like he’s really trying. But how can I be certain? I don’t want to upset the boys by going home prematurely, but we’ll have to reach a decision by the time school starts.” She leaned forward. “What would you do if you were me?”

Ben, the Fix-It Guy, the big brother with all the answers. Well, he sure didn’t have one for this. “I’m not you. I suppose the big question is do you love him enough to work with him, help him?” He studied her sad face, then added, “What price are you willing to pay?”

“It isn’t easy making it on your own,” his mother pointed out. Whether it was a result of the diced onions or something else, she ran the back of her hand across her eyes. The voice of experience, Ben thought. She’d been the backbone of the family for a very long time.

In the awkward silence, he stood and crossed to the cookie jar. “Peanut butter, my favorite,” he said with satisfaction, snagging a big one.

“Will you be at the picnic, son?”

“That’s partly why I stopped by—to tell you I’m hip-deep in work. I can sure use this day to catch up.”

“Aren’t you seeing Laurel?” Bess asked.

“For the fireworks. Her shop will be open most of the day.” He swallowed the last of the cookie, planted a kiss on his mother’s cheek and headed out the back door.

“Ben?”

He turned and waited for his mother, who walked beside him to his car. He put an arm around her. “You okay?”

“I wanted to apologize. I was a little rough on you the other day.” She hesitated. “I do my share of grieving, but I don’t figure it does any good to inflict it on you kids.”

“I’m here for you, you know.”

“I know that. In fact, sometimes I think we lean on you way too much. Between work and this family, you don’t have much time for yourself.” She tilted his chin so he was looking down into her eyes. “Or for Laurel.” Assessing his expression, she said, “She’s special to you, isn’t she?”

He swallowed. “Very.”

His mother’s face broke into a sunny smile. “Good.” She nodded her head for emphasis. “Good. I like her, too. So do the kids.”

Ben ran his knuckles over her cheek. “Is this sort of a blessing?”

“Faith and begorra,” she teased, “the very best Irish kind.”

He wrapped his arms around her, smelling the spicy-fresh scent he always associated with her. “Thanks, Mom,” he whispered, grateful for her approval, but unsure whether anything had truly changed.

I
NCREDIBLY
, next to the grand opening, the Fourth of July sales were the highest yet for The Gift Horse. Laurel couldn’t believe the number of out-of-town customers, not to mention locals, who seemed to have an all-consuming need for items like the seasonal paper goods she’d recently begun to stock. Without Mrs. Arlo and Ellen, she and Megan would’ve been swamped. Laurel finally shooed out the last shoppers at six.

Emerging from a quick shower, she selected a pair of navy shorts and a boat-necked shirt, broadly striped in red, white and blue. Ben had called late this afternoon and asked if she minded walking to the office to meet him when she got squared around. They’d go to the fireworks from there. Since she needed to stop by the bank, anyway, to deposit today’s income, that plan suited her fine.

She grabbed up a supersize beach towel and a cooler filled with cheese, fruit and beer. The fire works display was due to start at dusk. She grinned in anticipation. What could be better than being with Ben on a beach blanketed with stars of both the manmade and natural variety?

As she set off down the street, the faint, tinny sounds of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” caught her ear. A hastily assembled band composed of local residents was holding forth in the park. Not great music, but appropriately homey and sentimental. Kids riding by on bikes streaming crepe paper waved at her. Pedestrians, most of whom she was delighted to realize she knew, greeted her. Even Arlo Bramwell smiled when she passed him.

The outer office door was locked, but Ben came quickly when she rapped on the glass. Sometimes just the sight of him took her breath away. His smile, his eyes—he was one handsome man.

He took the cooler and towel from her and set them on a chair in the reception area. “I’m almost through. Can you give me a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

He gestured at a low table between two chairs. “Help yourself to the magazines. Oh, and there might be some new ones in the mail on Janet’s desk.” He walked back into his office and soon she could hear the clicking of his keyboard keys as he worked.

She walked around the room, studying the photographs of Michigan beach sites. Finally she sank into a chair and leafed through the stack of magazines. She didn’t know quite how to tell him that
Golf Digest, Financial World
and dog-eared copies of outdated
Reader’s Digests
left much to be desired as waiting-room entertainment.

She checked her watch. She’d been here five minutes, and from the other room, she could still hear the continuing rat-a-tat of a keyboard. She stood and circled the photographs again. Still no Ben. Maybe she would check Janet’s desk. With any luck at all, there would be a current issue of
Oprah
or
Midwest Living.
It wouldn’t be snooping. He’d told her to help herself.

On top of the stack of mail was a tax quarterly, a guaranteed soporific, but underneath it, she struck pay dirt with a new
National Geographic.
She pulled it from the pile and was about to turn from the desk, when her eye fell on the memo pad beside the telephone.

What the…?

With a trembling hand, she pulled it toward her, reading and rereading the brief message, convinced that the letters absolutely could not be forming the words they did, could not be conveying the message that was causing her to shake with confusion and rage.

But there was no denying what was written in Janet’s precise hand.
July 3, 5:10 p.m. Please call Roger Crandall regarding the Laurel Eden investigation.

Investigation? Amid the chaos in her mind, Laurel tried to process the idea. Ben was investigating
her?
But why?

Then anger flooded her entire being—inchoate, numbing.

She picked up the pad and charged into his office, oblivious to the startled expression on his face. Slamming the pad down on his desk, she spoke in words so cold, so distant she was convinced they had to be coming from some other person.

“You have sixty seconds to explain yourself before fireworks the likes of which you’ve never imagined go off. Here. Now.”

B
EN’S HEAD SNAPPED UP
from the monitor. A Laurel he didn’t recognize stood before him, her breath coming in short gasps, her cheeks flushed. But it was her flashing eyes that made it nearly impossible to speak. He rose to his feet. “What are you talking about?”

She said nothing. Just stuck out an index finger and pointed to the memo pad she’d slung onto his desk. Bewildered, he picked it up and studied it, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as the impact of the message set in. “Laurel, I—”

“I didn’t know it was standard operating procedure for attorneys to run background checks on their…” She seemed to be having difficulty finishing her thought.

“It’s not like that. It’s not even a big deal.”

She might have been seven feet tall the way she gathered herself to glare at him. “Not a big deal? Not to you maybe, but it’s a very big deal to me.” She made an elaborate show of checking her watch. “Ten seconds and counting. Make it good.”

A punch to the stomach couldn’t have made him feel any worse. “I—it’s a matter of client confidentiality.”

“So now you’re your own client?”

“I’d never do that.”

She edged around the desk, poking her finger at his chest. “Tell me, who is investigating me? And more importantly, why?”

“Laurel, I can’t.” His anguished voice sounded impotent.

She continued to stare at him as if she’d never seen him before. Then her lips trembled and tears gathered in her eyes. He tried to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away and said brokenly, “I trusted you.”

“Laurel—”

Her voice rose. “Stop Laurel-ing me. All I have to say to you, Ben Nolan, is that I’m glad I found out before it was too late. The last thing I need is another weasel in my life!” She wheeled around and marched to the door, then whirled to face him again. “One other thing. Is there a reason I need to hire my own attorney?”

He sank back into his desk chair, defeated. “No. It’s not like that.”

She stood rooted to the spot, disgust and hurt written all over her. “It better not be,” she said, turning her back and marching through the reception area and out the door, closing it forcefully behind her.

Ben buried his head in his hands. He should have anticipated something like this. In his gut the investigation had never felt right. He loved Laurel and should have put her ahead of anything, anyone, no matter how obligated he felt toward Katherine Sullivan and Jay Kelley. Good old Ben, the responsible guy who always helped out, had betrayed the most important person in his life.

His first instinct was to go after Laurel. But then reason kicked in. To say what? To explain himself how? She had every right to be upset. The hell of it was, how was there any coming back from this?

He didn’t know how long he sat there, sick at heart, in the eerie glare of the computer monitor. He roused himself only when he heard the thunder of the first booming sky rockets. Finally he clicked off the computer, locked the office and walked out to his car, never stopping to look up at the brilliant reds, greens, silvers and golds exploding over Belleporte.

Fireworks were nothing more than painful reminders that his future with Laurel had fizzled just like the dying sparks dissolving into the night sky.

L
AUREL RACED DOWN
the deserted street, ran up the darkened stairs of her apartment and threw herself on her bed. With giant hiccuping wheezes, the tears had commenced halfway home. Even now she couldn’t get her breath. A pain, insistent and throbbing, robbed her of reason. All she could think was, “Is this what a broken heart feels like?”

Then the anger returned. She pounded her fists on the bed. The “Laurel Eden investigation.” Investigation of what?

She’d been scrupulous in setting up her business. And as for her past, aside from her miserable four years with Curt Vanover, she had led a remarkably boring life, at least from an investigator’s point of view.

Well, she wasn’t going to waste energy grieving over Ben Nolan. She reached for the bedside tissue and blew her nose so loudly it startled her. Determined not to lie in her bed like some wilting violet, she got to her feet and crossed to the window.

Over the treetops she could make out flashing traces of fire in the sky. The staccato bursts of sound reverberated in her skull.

She turned away from the window.
Perfect.
That’s how she’d characterized her life to Ellen. To think that less than an hour ago she’d equated Ben Nolan with fireworks. And even more than that, with love.

Slowly she undressed in the dark, brushed her teeth and turned the air conditioner to maximum so she could snuggle beneath the quilt so lovingly stitched by her mother and seek some kind of comfort.

But tomorrow would not be about comfort. It would be about work, about excising Ben Nolan from her heart and, most important, about getting to the bottom of this ludicrous investigation.

“W
HAT IN THE WORLD
?” Janet Kerns gave Ben the once-over. “You look awful. Last night’s fireworks too much for you?”

Uh, yeah. Way too much.
“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Tell me about it. Your eyes look like a color map of the Red Sea, and did you think about brushing your hair this morning?”

Distractedly, Ben ran a hand over his head. “I had a lot on my mind.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Apparently.” She nodded toward one of the waiting room chairs. “What do you want me to do with those?”

Laurel’s cooler and towel.
“Could you walk the stuff over to The Gift Horse later?”

“Sure, but—”

Before his secretary had further opportunity to cross-examine him, Ben said curtly, “Get me Roger Crandall on the phone.” He brushed past her, closed his office door and sank into his chair. He had to get it over with. Follow through with the investigation. In the course of his sleepless night, he’d decided the only way he had any chance with Laurel was to prove to her that the investigation had resulted solely from Katherine’s overactive imagination and, if he was truthful, his own innate desire to please people. All he could do, then, would be to cast himself on Laurel’s mercy and hope he hadn’t thrown away his best opportunity for happiness.

The staccato buzz of the phone line racked him. He picked up and, summoning calm, said evenly, “Ben Nolan.”

“I think I’ve got something for you on the Eden case.” The investigator hesitated. “I’ve found a link between Noel Eden and the Sullivans.”

Ben sat forward, clenching the receiver.
This couldn’t be happening.

Crandall continued in his detached monotone. “I’ve been interviewing some of the Edens’ neighbors, who, by the way, weren’t terribly forthcoming.”

“And?”

“They say Eden’s a great fellow who doesn’t talk much about his past. They do know he was a student activist and that at some point he attended a Big Ten university.” The man cleared his throat. “Not much to go on, but I’ve been looking at old photo files from places that were hotbeds of student protest and I’ve found a coupla photos from the University of Wisconsin that sure look like Noel Eden. There’s one major problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The guy’s name isn’t Noel Eden.”

“What’re you trying to tell me?”

With the patience of a teacher explaining a problem to a slow student, Crandall went on. “If this proves out, Laurel Eden’s father has to have changed his name.”

Ben made the next leap of logic. “So…her mother, too, might have changed her name.”

“Seems like it. But I’ve saved the best for the last. Guess who else appears in one of the photos?” He delivered his coup de grace. “A Jo Sullivan, who’s a dead ringer for a younger version of Pat Eden.”

Ben wiped the film of perspiration from his forehead. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“Not one hundred percent, but I’m gonna be working on tracking down court records for a name change and asking some questions here in Madison. But, yeah, I think it’s pretty much a lock that Laurel Eden could be your client’s granddaughter.”

Battered by the ramifications of this news, Ben’s brain barely functioned. “I, uh, I’d like to defer any action on this end until I have your final report.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks.” Ben let the phone slip into the cradle, then stared at it as if it were a time bomb. Katherine might be pleased, but Ben couldn’t be concerned with that because another thought had taken possession of him. What would such news do to Laurel, so trusting and confident in her “charmed” life?

Then another ominous notion came to him. If, in fact, Jo Sullivan and Pat Eden were the same person, what had caused the young woman to turn her back on her family, assume a new identity and stay hidden for nearly thirty years?

It couldn’t be good.

L
AUREL BOLTED AWAKE
. It was after nine. The store opened at ten. She never slept in. Then, crashing like a breaker over shoals, memory came—along with a pounding headache.
Investigation.
The ugly word soured her stomach. She struggled to her feet, reached the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Taking down the aspirin bottle, she shook two tablets in her hand, chasing them with a glass of water.

She braced herself on the basin and looked at her image. More than makeup would be needed to hide the ravaged look in her eyes. Besides, what kind of cosmetic bandage concealed a broken heart? She shook her head wearily.
Ben, how could you?

But no matter her pain and disillusionment, the show must go on. Customers would be waiting. Sure enough, Megan and Mrs. Arlo were getting ready to open when she finally made her appearance. Fortunately, Megan was so involved in telling the older woman about her date to the fireworks that neither of them noticed Laurel looked like a pathetic sea creature washed up on the sand. After greeting them, she hastily retreated to the rear of the shop to dust display shelves.

Because of the long Fourth of July weekend, the shop was busy all morning. Laurel did her best to avoid conversation, afraid someone would notice her normally cheerful disposition had been replaced by a bone-wrenching sadness, which hadn’t been helped by Janet Kerns’s delivery just before noon. The ice in the cooler had melted, floating the fruit and cheese and covering the untouched cans of beer. There was symbolism there somewhere.

In the afternoon Laurel buried herself in work, deciding which items to mark down for a post-holiday sale and preparing new price tags. Katherine arrived shortly before teatime, dressed in a bright yellow sweater set. Perched on the chair by her tea table, her head cocked as she chatted with customers, she resembled nothing so much as a lively yellow finch.

Around four, Laurel looked out the window and saw clouds massing over the lake. Her American flag whipped with the sudden gusts. She hurried outside, smelling the approach of a storm in the air. Quickly she hauled in the rocking horse and the potted plants. Customers hastily completed their purchases in the desire to beat the rain home. Mrs. Arlo had already left, but Megan insisted she was staying to close, since her boyfriend was picking her up then.

“Do you have a ride?” Laurel asked Katherine, who was washing the tea dishes and putting them back in the cupboard.

“Greta brought me to town. I was planning to walk home.”

“Have you checked outside lately?”

“Why?”

“It’s getting ready to storm.” Laurel looked around the store. No customers. Megan knew how to close. “Let me drive you.”

“But it’s not five yet.”

“I know. Megan can take care of everything.” She mustered a grin. “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me this weekend.”

Katherine studied Laurel. “You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“I insist.”

“Would you do an old lady a favor and stay for dinner? Nan, John and Jay left for Chicago this morning. I’d like the company.”

It beat sitting in her empty apartment feeling sorry for herself. Besides, she enjoyed Katherine. “You’ve twisted my arm.”

Laurel brought the car around front and helped Katherine in. Just as they pulled away, fat raindrops began peppering the hood.

Katherine craned her neck, peering at the sky. “Looks like we’re in for one of our doozies of a lake storm. Maybe it will help clear the air.”

Laurel said nothing. Clearing the air sounded like a good idea to her. But it wasn’t the weather she was thinking of.

O
UTSIDE
, a furious wind howled and rain pelted Summer Haven, but inside everything was snug, a tribute, Katherine reflected, to her father’s insistence on quality workmanship. Katherine and Laurel lingered at the dinner table over coffee and Greta’s famous brownies. But throughout the meal, Katherine had felt vaguely disturbed. Something was wrong with Laurel. Oh, Katherine knew the young woman was trying her best to appear upbeat, but the smiles never reached her eyes, and in unguarded moments, she slumped with an air of defeat or sadness. Whatever could be the matter?

Just as she was getting ready to inquire, the lights flickered out, then came on again. Katherine shoved her chair back. “Let’s move to the living room. There are candles there, just in case. Bring your coffee, why don’t you?”

Through the French doors, they had a view of the roiling surface of the lake and the dramatic lightning display. “Almost better than fireworks,” Katherine said as she settled in a chair adjacent to Laurel’s.

“Infinitely better,” Laurel said in a tone Katherine would normally identify as acerbic, which wasn’t like sunny Laurel.

“I’ve always loved storms,” Katherine said. “Ferocious, but cleansing. The ones that sweep across the lake are nothing short of majestic. Do you get storms like this in West Virginia?”

“Sometimes. But my favorites are the long, gentle rains that turn everything lush and green and leave swirls of mist on the mountains. It’s like being lost in nature, in the very best way.”