Cate grinned. “I know. But they can’t tell time, so what does a few minutes matter? Will you watch the cash register for a few minutes? Everything looked okay in the dining room, no one needed coffee; so there’s nothing to do until someone leaves.”
“Got it,” said Sherry, and Cate left the kitchen by the hall door, climbing the long, steep flight of stairs.
She had chosen the two front bedrooms for herself and the twins, saving the best views for the paying guests. Both stairs and hallway were carpeted, so her steps were silent as she turned to the right at the top of the stairs. Their door was open, she saw, but she didn’t hear their voices. She smiled; that was good.
Stopping in the doorway, she watched them for a minute. Tucker was sitting in the naughty chair, his head down and his lower lip protruding as he picked at his fingernails. Tanner sat on the floor, pushing a toy car up an incline he’d made by propping one of their storybooks against his leg, and making motor noises under his breath.
Her heart squeezed as a memory flooded her. Their first birthday, just a few months after Derek’s death, had brought them an avalanche of toys. She had never made motor noises to them; they were just learning how to walk, and their toys were soft, plush animals, or something to bang, or educational toys she was using to teach them words and coordination. They had been too young when Derek died for him to have played cars with them, and she knew her dad hadn’t either. Her brother, who might have, lived in Sacramento and she had seen him only once since Derek’s death. Without anyone having demonstrated motor noises for them, they had each seized one of their new, fat, brightly colored plastic cars and pushed them back and forth, saying something that sounded like “uudddden,
uuddden
”—even capturing the gear changes. She had stared at them in total astonishment, for the first time truly realizing that a large part of their personalities came preset, and she might fine-tune their basic instincts but she didn’t have the power to shape their entire psyches. They were who they were, and she loved every inch, every molecule of them.
“It’s time to swap,” she said, and Tucker hopped out of the naughty chair with a huge sigh of relief. Tanner released the little car and let his head droop as far as it would go, the complete picture of pitiful dejection. He dragged himself up, invisible weights attached to his feet so he could barely walk. He moved so slowly she was beginning to think he might become old enough to start school before he made it to that chair. But finally he reached it and dropped into the seat, his body slumped.
“Ten minutes,” she said, once again fighting the urge to laugh. He obviously thought he was doomed; his body language all but shouted that he had no hope of being released from the naughty chair before he died.
“I was good,” Tucker said, coming to lean against her legs. “I didn’t talk at all.”
“That was very brave of you,” Cate said, stroking her fingers through his dark hair. “You took your punishment like a man.”
He looked up, blue eyes wide. “I did?”
“You did. I’m so proud.”
His little shoulders squared, and he looked thoughtfully at Tanner, who showed every sign of expiring within moments. “Am I bwavuh than Tannuh?”
“B
r
aver,” Cate corrected.
“Brrrraverrr.”
“Very good. Tann
er.
”
“Tannerrrr,” he repeated, making the sound growl.
“Remember to take your time, and you’ll have it down pat.”
Puzzled, he tilted his head. “Who’s Damn Pat?”
“Tucker!” Horrified anew, Cate froze and her mouth fell open. “Where did you hear that word?”
If anything, he looked even more puzzled. “You said it, Mommy. You said ‘Damn Pat.’”
“
Down,
not
damn
!”
“Ohhh.” He frowned. “Down Pat. Who’s Down Pat?”
“Never mind.” Maybe it was just a coincidence; maybe he hadn’t heard the word
damn
at all. After all, there were only twenty-six letters in the alphabet, so how unusual was it that he would get some of them mixed up? Maybe he’d completely forget what he’d said if she just let the subject drop. Yeah, right. He’d savor it in private, then trot it out when it was certain to embarrass her the most—probably in front of her mother.
“Sit down and play while Tanner’s in the naughty chair,” she instructed, patting his shoulder. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Eight,” said Tanner, reviving enough to give her a look of outrage.
She checked her wristwatch; damn if there weren’t eight minutes left in his sentence. He’d already been in the chair for two of his punishment minutes.
Yes, sometimes her children definitely alarmed her. They could each count to twenty, but she certainly hadn’t yet introduced them to subtraction, plus their concept of time tended to be either “right now” or “wait a long, long time.” Somewhere along the line, while he was observing instead of talking, Tanner had picked up some math skills.
Maybe he could do her taxes next year, she thought with amusement.
As she turned away, her gaze fell on the number
3
plainly lettered on the door across the hall from the stairwell. Mr. Layton! What with the plumbing emergency, plus the twins’ disobedience, she had completely forgotten about bringing a breakfast tray up to him.
Swiftly she walked to the door; it was slightly ajar, so she knocked on the doorjamb instead. “Mr. Layton, it’s Cate Nightingale. Would you like me to bring up a breakfast tray?”
She waited, but there was no answer. Had he left the room and gone downstairs while she’d been in the twins’ room? The door had a stubborn squeak, so she thought she would have heard him if he’d opened it.
“Mr. Layton?”
Still no answer. Gingerly she pushed the door open, and the squeak came right on cue.
The bedcovers were thrown messily aside, and the closet door stood open, showing several articles of clothing hanging from the pole. Each guest room had a small private bath and that door, too, was standing open. A small leather suitcase was on the folding luggage stand, the lid open and propped against the wall. Mr. Layton, however, wasn’t there. He must have gone downstairs while she’d been talking to the boys, and she simply hadn’t heard the door squeak.
She started to back out of the room, not wanting him to return and think she was snooping, when she noticed the window was open, and the screen looked slightly askew. Puzzled, she crossed to the window and tugged the screen back into place, latching it. How on earth had it gotten unlatched? Had the boys been playing in here, and tried to climb out the window? Her blood ran cold at the thought, and she looked out at the drop to the porch roof below. Such a fall would break their bones, possible even kill them.
She was so riveted with horror at the possibility it was a moment before she realized the parking area was empty. Mr. Layton’s rental car wasn’t there. Either he hadn’t come back upstairs at all, or—or he’d climbed out the window onto the porch roof, swung down to the ground, and driven off. The idea was ridiculous, but preferable to thinking her little boys might be climbing out on the porch roof.
She left room 3 and returned to the twins’ room. Tanner was still in the naughty chair, and still looked in danger of imminent demise. Tucker was drawing on their blackboard with a piece of colored chalk. “Boys, have either of you opened any of the windows?”
“No, Mommy,” Tucker said without pausing in his art creation.
Tanner managed to lift his head and give it a ponderous shake.
They were telling the truth. When they lied, their eyes would get big and round and they’d stare at her as if she were a cobra, hypnotizing them with the sway of her head. She hoped they’d still do that when they were teenagers.
The only explanation left for the open window was that Mr. Layton had indeed climbed out it, and driven away.
Why on earth would he do such a strange thing?
And if he had happened to fall, would her insurance have covered it?
CATE HURRIED DOWN THE STAIRS, HOPING SHERRY HADN’T been overwhelmed by an unexpected influx of customers while Cate had been upstairs dealing with the twins. As she approached the kitchen door, she heard Sherry’s voice, rich with amusement. “I wondered how long you were going to keep your head stuck under that sink.”
“I was afraid if I moved, she’d swat my ass, too.”
Cate skidded to a stop, her eyes wide in astonishment. Mr. Harris had said that? Mr.
Harris
? And to
Sherry
? She could see him saying something like that to another man—maybe—but when he was talking to a woman, he could barely put two words together without blushing. And there was an ease to his tone she’d never heard before, one that made her doubt her own ears.
Mr. Harris…and Sherry? Had she missed something there? It couldn’t be; the idea of those two together was too outlandish to be real, like…like Lisa Marie and Michael Jackson.
Which told her that anything was possible.
Sherry was older than Mr. Harris, in her mid-fifties, but age didn’t matter much. She was also an attractive woman, hefty but curvy, with reddish hair and a warm, outgoing personality. Mr. Harris was—well, Cate had no idea how old he was. Somewhere between forty and fifty, she guessed. She pictured him in her mind’s eye; he looked older than he probably was, and it wasn’t because he was wrinkled or anything like that. He was just one of those people who was born old, with a seen-it-all manner. In fact, now that she really thought about it, he might not even be forty yet. His nondescript hair, somewhere between brown and dishwater blond, was always too shaggy, and she’d never seen him when he wasn’t wearing a pair of grease-stained, baggy coveralls. He was so lanky the coveralls hung on him, looser than a prostitute’s morals.
Cate felt ashamed; he was so shy she actually avoided looking at him or casually chatting, not wanting to stress him out, and now she felt guilty because not drawing him out was easier than getting to know him and putting him at ease, as Sherry had obviously done. Cate, too, should have put herself to the trouble, should have made the effort to befriend him, as everyone here had made the effort to befriend her when she’d first taken over the B and B. Some neighbor she’d been!
She went into the kitchen, feeling as if she were stepping into the twilight zone. Mr. Harris literally jumped when he saw her, his face turning red, as if he knew she’d overheard. Cate jerked her thoughts back to Mr. Layton’s weird actions and away from the possibility of a romance going on beneath her nose. “The guest in number three climbed out the window and left,” she said, then lifted her shoulders in an “I don’t know what the hell’s going on” gesture.
“Out the window?” Sherry echoed, equally puzzled. “Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. I have his credit card number, so it isn’t as if he can run out on the bill. And his stuff’s still here.”
“Maybe he just wanted to climb out the window, see if he could.”
“Maybe. Or he’s nuts.”
“Or that,” Sherry agreed. “How many nights is he staying?”
“Just last night. Checkout’s at eleven, so he should be back soon.” Though where on earth he could have gone, she couldn’t imagine, unless he’d felt a sudden urge to visit the feed store. Trail Stop didn’t have any shops or restaurants; if he’d wanted breakfast, he should have eaten here. The nearest honest-to-God town was an hour’s drive away, so he wouldn’t have time to go there, eat, then get back before it was time to check out—not to mention that it would be self-defeating, if he simply hadn’t wanted to eat with strangers.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll be…um—” He looked around, clearly discomfited.
Guessing that he didn’t know where to put his empty cup, Cate said, “I’ll take it,” and held out her hand. “Thanks for stopping by. I wish you’d let me pay you, though.”
He stubbornly shook his head as he gave the cup to her. Determined to be more friendly, she continued, “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“None of us know how we got along before
Cate was vaguely surprised; she’d thought Mr. Harris had always been here. He certainly fit in with the locals as if he’d lived here all his life. The sense of shame rose in her throat again. Sherry referred to him by his first name, while Cate had always called him Mr. Harris, effectively putting him at a distance. She didn’t know why she did it, but there it was.
“Mommmmy!” Tucker bellowed from the top of the stairs. “Time’s up!”
Sherry chuckled, and Cate saw a brief smile tug at Mr. Harris’s mouth as he gave Sherry a two-fingered salute and picked up his toolbox, evidently intent on making a getaway before the boys came back downstairs.
Cate rolled her eyes heavenward, silently asking for a little peace and quiet, then stepped into the hall. “Tell Tanner he may get out of the naughty chair.”
“Awwight!” The gleeful shout was followed by the sounds of jumping. “Tannuh! Mommy said to get up! Let’s build a fort and bawwicade me and you in it.” Caught up in his enthusiasm for his game, he ran back to their room.
Cate was torn between amusement at his Elmer Fudd pronunciation and puzzlement at his word choice.
Barricade
? Where had he come up with
that
? Maybe they’d been watching old westerns on television; she needed to keep a closer watch on their entertainment.
She checked the dining room: it was empty; the morning rush was over. After she and Sherry cleaned the dining room and kitchen and Mr. Layton returned to get his things, she could change the sheets on the bed and clean the room, then she’d have the rest of the day to get things ready for her mother’s visit.
Mr. Harris had left. Going over to help with the dishes, Cate bumped her hip against Sherry’s. “So, what’s up with you and Mr. Harris? Is there something going on between you two?”
Sherry’s mouth fell open, and she gave Cate a look of absolute astonishment. “Good God, no. What gave you that idea?”