Close to You (12 page)

Eve barely looked at the paper as she
scribbled her name. “Can you tell me who made the accusations in
the first place?”

“
Our sources our
confidential.” The woman put the papers into her briefcase and
closed the clasps with a sharp snap. “We’ll see you in several
months.”

Eve nodded, barely refraining from
reminding her not to forget her sickle on the way out.

“
Good day then.”

She and Treat watched the woman leave.
Breaking the silence, she said, “At least the Grim Reaper said she
hasn’t seen a cleaner kitchen in ages.”

“
The Grim
Reaper?”

“
The woman from the Health
Department.” She nodded at the door.

He smiled. “She did reek of gloom and
doom, didn’t she?”

Eve stared worried after the woman.
“Do you think I’m overreacting in thinking the woman from Crumpet
is responsible?”

“
If she’s been harassing
you, it’s a valid supposition,” he said soberly.

“
I need to go talk to
her.”

“
Maybe I should go talk to
her.”

She shook her head. “It’s my problem.
I’ll do it.”

“
But there’s—”

“
It’s okay. I’ve got it
covered.”

His brow furrowed as if he didn’t
understand.

She reached up and touched his face.
“I appreciate the concern though. It means the world to
me.”

He kissed her palm. “Let me know if
you need anything?”

“
Yes.” She wrinkled her
nose. “It may be in the form of a drink and a hug.”

“
That can be arranged.” He
kissed her hand again. “That, and more.”

Chapter Sixteen

Margaret hated this room.

It wasn’t hers. Yes, she slept in it.
She had every night since Harry had left her. When she’d first
decorated it for guests, she’s thought it was enchanting. Wrought
iron bed, rosy walls, antique wardrobe.

But since she started sleeping in
here, the bed had made her feel like she was behind bars. She hated
the damn lacy curtains. Overgrown doilies was what they
were.

A Victorian prison.

The familiar anger began to choke her
again. At the curtains she hated. The resentment and fury swelled
inside her like a sinister wave. She clutched the covered to keep
from jumping up and ripping the curtains down.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she
lost the house.

She gasped, taking the thought back.
Harry would have been so hurt if he’d heard her.

But Harry was dead, that dark voice
inside her said.

Margaret jerked to sitting. She
needed…

She didn’t know what she
needed.

The night closed in around her, and
she struggled to breathe. Scrabbling for the lamp on the bedside
table, she managed to turn it on.

The light did nothing to dispel her
panic.

She reached for the phone, picking up
the business card next to it. She’d call Grant.

But she couldn’t. It was too late, on
so many levels. She put the card back.

She couldn’t call Treat. He’d called
her yesterday and left a message, saying he needed to talk to her.
She hadn’t called back because the tone of his voice had scared
her. And then she’d seen his truck had been parked outside Grounds
for Thought.

He suspected.

That perky girl and her croissants
were stealing everything.

Margaret pushed her temples. She just
wanted things back to the way they were when Harry was alive. When
everything was safe and secure.

That was never happening.

A sob broke the night’s silence, and
it startled her to realize it’d come from her. She reached for her
pearls, fighting for control, but they felt as cold and distant as
everything else.

She needed to do something. She needed
to move.

Pushing the covers aside, she got out
of bed and put a sweater on over her pajamas. Slipping into her
tennis shoes, she walked out into the night.

She hadn’t planned on going anywhere
specific, so when she found herself on Sacramento Street a couple
blocks from Crumpet, she was almost surprised.

She slowed. Maybe there was something
she could do. She couldn’t let that girl just take everything she
had. Because Treat may have insisted he was going to seal her café
from flood damage, but Margaret had seen the look he’d gotten in
his eyes. It was the same look Harry got when they’d first
met.

Flood damage.

She stopped abruptly. A little water
damage would distract the girl, and Treat didn’t do that sort of
work. He’d be free to work on renovating Crumpet, and Eve would be
out of the running for the Daniela Rossi event.

Her heart pounded. It was
wrong.

No one would know.

She’d
know.

She touched her pearls. What recourse
did she have? Sit around and wait for that girl to take everything
from her?

How would she do it? It was an
impossible idea. She didn’t have access, and how would she simulate
a flood?

She began walking, headed to Grounds
for Thought. She’d just look around and then go home. She wasn’t
committing to anything.

The storefront was dark except for one
soft light close to the register. Margaret stared inside. Even
without people the shop looked so inviting.

Her anger surged again. She looked at
the lock on the door. Maybe she should have looked up how to pick
them. The Internet was a wondrous thing.

She walked around the corner of the
building. Treat said there was a back courtyard.

There it was, only there was a high
fence protecting it.

She glared at the fence and walked up
to it. She could reach the top, just barely.

She hadn’t climbed anything in
years.

How hard could it be? She grabbed the
top of the fence and hauled herself up. Her feet scrabbled for
purchase, but she couldn’t hoist herself up.

Dropping, breathing heavily, she
looked around. To her left there was a bush.

A bush would work. She scooted over
and grabbed the fence again. Putting her feet on top of the bush,
she lifted herself up to straddle the fence. A feeling of triumph
made her want to laugh out loud.

Until she realized she had to make it
down the other side. And there wasn’t anything she could use to
step down on.

She sobered, gripping the fence tight.
She felt a splinter pierce her palm as she tried to figure out how
to get down.

There was nothing for it. She had to
jump.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, she
eased her legs over slowly. She meant to dangle her way down
easily, but she lost control and dropped to the ground.
Hard.

She lay on the ground, looking up at
the night clouds. How ironic would it be if she was found here,
broken, in the morning? After she caught her breath, she took stock
of her injuries, but she realized somehow she hadn’t gotten
anything worse than a couple splinters and some
scratches.

Wincing, she gingerly stood and looked
around. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the garden hose
to the side of the building.

It was like fate prodding her that it
was actually connected to a water spigot that worked. She turned it
on and watched the water pour out.

She could turn it off and leave now,
no one the wiser.

And then she’d lose her business and
her son. And she’d be completely alone.

Margaret turned the faucet up higher,
so the water gushed forth. Then she set the hose on the ground,
facing the glass door at the back of the café.

She could see what Treat was talking
about—the water pooled right away. She didn’t wait to see if it
seeped inside like he’d theorized. She needed to figure out how to
leave.

Dragging a plastic bucket to the
fence, she climbed up easier this time and used the bush to ease
her way down the other side.

As she rounded the corner, she
startled as she caught a glimpse of a half-crazed woman staring at
her in the café’s window.

Her own
reflection
. She wilted, partly in relief.
Pulling her sweater tight around herself, she hurried around the
corner and toward her home.

Chapter Seventeen

Humming, Eve unlocked the front door
and bent down to pick up the pack of newspapers delivered each
morning. She bumped the door open with her hip and set the
newspapers on a table so she could lock behind her.

She loved coming in early, before the
store opened, to bake. Especially Monday, because she was fresh
from having Sunday off. This Sunday had been especially nice too.
She’d spent the day with Freya and her baby. She’d spent the night
talking to Treat on the phone. She paused and sighed, remembering
how delicious his voice had been on the phone, like he’d been in
bed with her.

One day soon.

Intending to head to the kitchen, she
turned, only her foot lost traction and she slipped.

With a startled yelp, she
overcorrected and flew forward. A loud
snap
echoed in the empty space. Pain
shot through her shoulder and arm as she slammed into the
wall.

“
Ouch.” Righting herself,
she rotated her arm. Nothing seemed broken. She frowned. It’d
sounded like something broke.

Then she looked down and saw the heel
of her Christian Louboutins lying dead on the hardwood.

“
No,
” she cried, kneeling. They were one of her favorite pairs—red
with white polka dots and a bow. Her fingers brushed the floor as
she picked up the dead heel—

Eve frowned at the wetness on her
fingertips. “What the hell?”

She brushed her hand on the hardwood.
It was wet. She rubbed her fingertips together and then sniffed
them. Water.

Standing, she limped gingerly to the
counter to flip on the lights. Kicking off her shoes, she walked
back around and looked at the floor.

It was covered with water—a thin layer
up front but increasingly thicker as she looked toward the
back.

Shocked, she stared at it. She didn’t
know how long she stood there until the cold pooling over her feet
propelled her into action.

“
Damn, damn, damn.” Tucking
her hair back, she walked to the back of her café. Three-quarters
of the way back, the water rose from a thin film to an
inch.

Not a big deal, she tried to assure
herself, but panic welled inside her as surely as the water in the
café. She bent and turned the cuffs of her jeans up a couple turns.
As her scones were baking, she’d mop up the water. It’d be dry by
the time she opened, and no one would be the wiser.

Except in the kitchen the water was at
least a couple inches high, and it only got higher toward the
back.

Anxiety gripped her chest, but she
forced herself to breathe and stay calm. This wasn’t so
bad.

Yes, it was, she admitted when she saw
the water damage on the walls. The water had seeped in and the
moment she touched the drywall it crumbled away, leaving a hole in
the hallway.

“
Shit.” She
ran—carefully—back out front and looked at the walls. The water
damage didn’t go all the way to the front, but in the back it was
definitely noticeable.

All the ramifications hit her at once.
Daniela Rossi would surely notice the damage and feel that it
wasn’t up to her standards. She was a chef, and chefs were
exacting. Meaning Eve would have to get it fixed.

It’d cost money—a ton of money. Even
her inexperienced eyes could see how bad it was.

She didn’t have money.

She’d have to call her
father.

Groaning, wanting to cry, she put her
head in her hands.

Wait. She lifted her head, frowning.
It hadn’t rained. Where had the water come from?

Slogging through the water, she went
to the back door, where it seemed to be higher. She opened the back
door and flipped on the light.

The water hose was running, streaming
water into the area where Treat had warned her the water would
pool, under the door, and into her shop.

“
What the
hell?
” She padded to the outlet and
wrenched it shut. The water slowed to a trickle and then
stopped.

Eve glared at the hose. How
had it turned on?
She
hadn’t done it.

But she was left to take care of the
mess it’d made. She winced, imagining telling her father, and went
out front to face the piper.

Disaster.

She watched her father pace back and
forth as he yelled into his phone. She didn’t know whether to be
really pissed or to put her head onto the counter and
cry.