Secrets of the Lost Summer (21 page)

She did. She definitely wanted him to kiss her, but not as a means to avoid talking to her. “Your house here is a wreck and it brings up unresolved issues with your father.”

He grinned and walked over to her. “Unresolved issues?”

She blamed the dots, the wine and the thought of flying for her pensive mood. “Not terribly introspective, are you?”

“Sometimes. Not right now.” He covered her hands with his, hooked his fingers into hers. “Right now I want to kiss you. What do you say, Liv?”

“You want my permission to—”

“Lots of Frosts and people related to Frosts in this town. I’m all by myself here.”

“Isolated and alone, huh?”

He tightened his fingers around hers and smiled. “You don’t feel sorry for me, do you?”

“Not even a little. It’s not what you’d want, anyway. It’s not what I want, either. About my thing with flying—” Olivia felt the warmth and strength of his hands and forced herself to concentrate and make her point “—I’ll figure it out.”

“You have plenty to keep you occupied here.”

She took a shallow breath. “You could tell Noah you’re staying to help me paint walls and furniture and pull weeds.”

“Noah’s a friend and I owe him, but I don’t jump whenever he snaps his fingers. He’d hate that and I couldn’t do it.” Dylan slipped his hands out of hers and planted them on the counter on either side of her, more or less pinning her against the counter. “I’m coming back, Olivia. I promise you. I’m coming back.”

“I won’t hold you to that.” She realized she was arching her back over the counter, as if to get farther away from him when it was the last thing she wanted. She gave a small laugh. “I’d have to get on a plane to hold you to it.”

“You could send Buster,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.

She lost her balance and shot out a hand, grabbing hold of him, steadying herself. She inhaled sharply at the feel of the hard muscle above the waistband of his jeans and knew immediately she was lost. She wrapped both arms around him, her lips parting for their kiss. The taste of him set her on fire. She let her hands course up his back. He responded, probing deeper with the kiss, lifting her off her feet.

The wind picked up outside, and she realized she’d left the window above the sink open. Cool air and a spray of rain hit her overheated skin. She hooked her legs around his hips and he pressed himself into her as if they were naked.

They could be, she thought. In a few seconds, she and Dylan McCaffrey could be making love against the kitchen sink. All the anxiety of earlier fell away. She just wanted him inside her.

“Dylan…”

She didn’t know if it was the sound of his name or her moan of out-of-control desire, or the wind and rain, but Buster was on alert, charging out from the mudroom, barking and growling as he circled her and Dylan.

“Hell, Buster,” Dylan muttered.

Olivia sputtered into laughter, shushing her dog as she came to her senses and all but jumped out of Dylan’s arms and stood on the wide-board floor. “I guess I have my own bodyguard,” she said, more welcome rain blowing onto her.

Dylan patted her on the hip. “Definitely coming back.”

In a few long strides, he was out the door. Olivia took a breath and shook her head at her dog. “You’ve got to learn better timing, my friend.”

She shut the window, the house somehow instantly feeling quieter, lonelier. Dylan’s departure was abrupt, but deliberately so, she thought. It was as if he’d realized he had to get out of there—not because he didn’t want to make love to her, but because he did. And he couldn’t, because he
was
hiding something.

Something to do with his father and lost treasure.

“No doubt in my mind.” Olivia turned to her big dog, still damp from the rain; she was glad she had a hutch to paint tonight. “Well, Buster, looks as if it’s just you and me again. Come on. Let’s get you dried off and go build a fire.”

Fourteen

I
t rained the next day and the day after. Olivia holed up at her house and worked. She finished several freelance design projects, finished painting the hutch, rearranged furniture, threw out her page of dots and, during lulls in the rain, planted spinach, lettuce and green onions and cleaned out a patch of rhubarb behind the potting shed.

By nightfall on the second day, she was beat, and still thinking about Dylan, what he hadn’t told her, when—if—he’d be back.

She was heating up leftover chili for dinner when her phone rang. “I’m working late,” Jacqui Ackerman said. “I thought you might be, too.”

“I just poured wine,” Olivia said truthfully as she sat at her kitchen table.

“Good for you. Mine’s waiting for me. Listen, I wanted to talk to you. I just got off the phone with Roger Bailey. He’s hiring a new manager for his interior design department. They’re expanding. He says there’ll be more work for us. We’re trying to figure out what to do.”

“That’s a nice problem to have.”

“Roger says he always liked what you did for them, especially for the interior design arm of the business.”

“I appreciate that,” Olivia said, watching out the window as rain puddled in a low spot in the front yard.

“Any chance you might consider coming back to work full-time?”

“In Boston?”

“That’s right.” Jacqui hesitated. “We’ve changed a few things here but you’d have your same job. Your workload was too intense in the months before you left. I threw too much at you. You never cracked, but with this new position, you’ll have more time to focus on actual design work.”

“What changes have you made, Jacqui?”

“Well, you know we hired Marilyn Bryson. She’s heading up a design and digital media team focusing on our biggest clients. You’d be a part of that. Come into town, and let’s all sit down together. You’re a good designer, Olivia. Your freelance work has been top-notch. This is a great opportunity for you. Think it over.”

“I will, Jacqui. Thanks for calling.”

As she hung up, Olivia pictured herself back at the studio. If she missed anything about Boston, it was the camaraderie of going into work every day. She marveled at Jacqui’s timing, managing to call when she’d hardly been out of the house for two days.

She wouldn’t be returning to her old job. Not really. Marilyn was there now, and Olivia would be reporting to her instead of directly to Jacqui.

Know your worth
was a mantra she’d learned early in her career. In retrospect, she could see that she’d helped Marilyn increase her worth while not paying enough attention to her own. That wasn’t Marilyn’s fault. It was her own fault.

Olivia grabbed her wineglass and stood up. She turned the heat off under the chili. Blaming herself, blaming Marilyn, rehashing the past, fighting regrets and second- guessing herself wouldn’t accomplish anything. She was lucky, she reminded herself. One of Boston’s most prestigious studios wanted her back on the payroll. At the same time, she was doing well freelancing. She was limiting the number of projects she took on only because she also was focused on transforming her house into a getaway.

She had chosen to move back to Knights Bridge. She
was
a good designer, but Roger Bailey’s defection and Marilyn’s behavior had forced her to examine what she really wanted.

I want this,
she thought, looking around her as darkness gathered on her quiet road. Her muscles ached from painting, planting and hauling. She felt great. Her vision for Carriage Hill had started to form when she and Marilyn were still close friends, talking every day. It wasn’t a reaction to anything Marilyn had done.

Olivia smiled, relaxing. She wasn’t going back to work for Jacqui or anyone else. She was taking everything she’d learned during her years in Boston—about design, color, marketing, client management, herself and business—and putting it to work on creating The Farm at Carriage Hill.

Her life was here, in Knights Bridge.

She abandoned her wine and got Buster onto his feet. She clipped on a leash, not wanting to risk having him run off in the dark. She imagined her house filled with people enjoying a getaway, whether for a few hours, a day or a weekend. Every aspect of her work energized and challenged her, from drawing up a business plan for the bank to weeding the chives. She wanted The Farm at Carriage Hill to succeed.

She had to be “all in.” Half measures wouldn’t do it.

Buster pulled on his leash as they headed outside. The rain had let up, and she could feel the front moving in, bringing with it dry, clear air. The contrast between her life in Boston and her life in Knights Bridge couldn’t have been more dramatic. There were no upscale shops and fancy restaurants, no lights and crush of people, hardly anyone she didn’t recognize. Marilyn had pretended to disdain the attention and perks that came with being in high demand as a designer, but, deep down, she’d wanted them. She just couldn’t admit it, maybe even to herself, when she’d been struggling.

The night was so quiet that Olivia could hear the crunch of small stones under her shoes. Jacqui’s call had stirred her up. She couldn’t just let it go. When she’d first conceived of The Farm at Carriage Hill, she hadn’t expected it to be her livelihood, at least not so soon. She’d thought she’d have time to make it happen. Now if it failed, she would have to start over.

It won’t fail.

Buster pulled on his leash all the way to Grace’s old house.

Olivia saw an owl swoop through the trees where the kids had dumped the refrigerator, now gone.

What if Dylan didn’t come back? What if he’d gotten sucked back into his life in San Diego?

Their kiss didn’t have to have any deeper meaning. He’d been chasing Buster. His blood was up, and she’d been there, emotions raw, wine poured.

She tugged on the leash. “If not for you, Buster…”

He lurched off down the road, and she laughed and trotted alongside him. Whatever betrayal of friendship and professional ethics Marilyn had committed, somehow she had helped Olivia get here, to this moment. She knew she was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do, and she knew, without a doubt, that she was a damn good designer.

And she knew that Dylan would be back.

Olivia got out of the house in the morning. It was one of those fresh, clear, perfect spring days, the air washed clean, the trees budding. Everything seemed green and new. She pulled into the mill and found her father down by the dam. With feigned nonchalance, he drank his coffee and watched the water sparkling in the sunlight. “Your mother tell you about seeing a therapist?”

“Dad…”

He held up a hand without looking at her. “It’s okay. I’m not asking you to betray a confidence. I know. And those damn dots. I figured it out. We’re crowding her, Liv. All of us.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Dad.”

“I just don’t want her to be afraid. Her, you, Jess.”

“You’ve always tried to protect us.” Olivia wasn’t sure what to say. “Sometimes we have to fall and get bruised, or even if we don’t have to, we will.”

He made a face and finally turned to her. “What happened in Boston, Liv?”

She shivered in a cool breeze. She’d let the sunshine fool her and hadn’t worn a sweater. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.”

“I know, Dad. It’s behind me.” She smiled. “I’m not afraid or hurt.”

He dumped the last of his coffee into the dirt. “What about this guy McCaffrey? He’s gone back to San Diego?”

“For now. If he thinks his father was after lost treasure here, he’ll be back.”

“There’s no treasure in Knights Bridge, Liv.”

She seized on the change in subject. “What about Quabbin? Do you remember any stories about treasure from when you were a kid?”

“The valley was flooded before I was born. I knew some of the old-timers who moved here from the lost towns.” He bent down and picked up a loose rock and rubbed the dirt off it with a thick, callused thumb. “There was some bitterness about what happened, but people moved on, lived their lives. I didn’t know any rich people, Liv. The people I knew owned farms and small shops, worked in the mills. I can’t imagine any of them having the kind of treasure that would have interested Duncan McCaffrey.”

“He was a legitimate treasure hunter. I have no reason to think he did anything sleazy or unethical.” Olivia sighed, the water on the millpond rippling in a stiff breeze. “I don’t know if he was even after treasure, never mind if it had anything to do with the building of Quabbin. It feels as if it was so long ago, but then I see Grace with her binoculars…”

“Hell, it
was
a long time ago, Liv. Grace is older ’n dirt.”

“Dad!”

He grinned. “You were getting awfully serious.”

“Aren’t you even a little curious?”

“No. I have to deal with the here and now. Rich treasure hunters like Duncan McCaffrey and his son can fool with this stuff. Grace had nothing to do with whatever they’re after.”

“Would Grandma know anything?”

“Doubt it. You can ask her but you’ll get the whole town talking. Do you want that? Do you want Grace to hear you’re looking into something in her past?”

“You make it sound like I’m being nosy.”

He arched a brow. “Well?”

He walked up to the mill to work. Olivia didn’t follow him and instead drove into the village and stopped at the library, a small brick building just off the town common. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for but the library seemed like a good place to start. The main reading room had framed black-and-white photographs on the walls of the Swift River Valley before and after Quabbin. She wondered if Dylan’s father had figured out that the treasure he was after was now under water. Not long ago, divers had surveyed the former valley floor, discovering interesting tidbits but no sunken treasure.

She found the librarian, Phoebe O’Dunn, one of Maggie’s sisters, shelving books in the children’s section. Olivia came straight to the point. “Do you have much on Knights Bridge during the building of Quabbin?”

Phoebe gathered up books off a cart. Her strawberry-blond hair was a tone darker and six inches shorter than her sister’s, but just as curly. “Are you looking up something because of your house? It’s the last one on an old road that leads right into the water.”

That hadn’t occurred to Olivia. What if Duncan McCaffrey had bought Grace’s house because it was next to
hers?
What if whatever he had been after was there?

“Do you get a lot of requests for information on Knights Bridge and Quabbin?”

“Rarely. It’s been a couple of years, at least. Most people specifically curious about Quabbin visit the Swift River Valley Historical Society in New Salem or the Visitors Center at Quabbin. They don’t come here.”

“Do you remember who was here a couple of years ago?”