Dearly Beloved (7 page)

“I’ll pass,” Liza says, rising and tossing her green-brocade napkin onto the table.

“Oh, but you can’t!”

Startled, she looks at the man, who offers a nervous little smile. “It’s a tradition here at the Bramble Rose for
all
of our guests to adjourn to the parlor for dessert.”

“Well, what about the other guests?” Liza asks.

“They’ll join us. . . . Won’t you?” Jasper asks Laura and Sandy.

Laura offers a reluctant nod, and Sandy says cheerfully, “Sure we will. I can never pass up dessert. What is it?”

“Chocolate raspberry torte with real whipped cream,” Jasper tells her. “And we have wonderful fresh berries to serve over—”

“Not these two guests,” Liza interrupts him. “I’m talking about everyone else who’s staying here at the inn.”

“There’s no one else staying here, besides me,” Jasper informs her. “You three are the only guests.”

T
here’s no one else staying here.

Jennie can’t get Jasper Hammel’s words out of her mind—nor can she shake the memory of that floorboard creaking above when she and Sandy were checking in earlier.

If there’s no one else here at the inn, then it must have been Liza lurking on the floor above. But why?

Jennie isn’t crazy about the sleek, snobby blond. But she certainly doesn’t seem like . . .

Well, like she’s up to something.

And ever since she’s arrived at the inn, Jennie’s been feeling uneasy. As though things aren’t what they seem. As though something odd is going on.

If Liza wasn’t the one who was eavesdropping at the top of the stairs, then Jasper Hammel is lying about there not being anyone else at the inn.

That wouldn’t be hard to believe. The man seems distinctly nervous. It could just be his personality type, but Jennie can’t help wondering whether there’s more to it than that.

On the other hand, why would there be something sinister going on at a quaint island inn?

You must be imagining things
Jennie tells herself again. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that since that horrible day three years ago.

Sometimes, she would be standing in line at Stop and Shop with a cartful of groceries and manage to convince herself that the person behind her had a gun.

And once, when she had been driving on the Mass Pike, she’d been so certain that she was being followed that she’d had to pull off at the rest area, so shaky that it was over an hour before she could calm down enough to keep driving.

Lately, those episodes were fewer and farther between. But she knows she still isn’t entirely okay—that sometimes, her mind plays tricks on her, sending her into near-panic over imaginary threats.

And that’s all it is this time,
Jennie assures herself as she settles into a Victorian rosewood parlor chair and looks around.

This is a cozy room, cast in a warm glow from a fringe-shaded Victorian floor lamp and the small blaze that crackles in the hearth. The lace curtains and floral-patterned wallpaper are similar to the decor in Jennie’s room upstairs; and the parlor, too, is filled with antiques.

Jennie’s skilled eye notes that all of the furniture and bric-a-brac appear to be authentic period pieces—and expensive. She bought a nineteenth century coatrack like the one in the corner at an auction in Marblehead just last week and paid a fortune for it.

She glances at Liza, who is perched on the edge of the matching parlor chair on the other side of the fireplace. The woman runs a manicured hand over her smooth blond hair, looking bored.

Sandy flops her heavy body onto the sofa beneath the only window. “Hey, did you notice there’s no TV?” she asks, looking around. “There’s not one in my room, either. Do you guys have them in yours?”

Liza ignores her, concentrating instead on adjusting the belt buckle on her trim black slacks.

Feeling sorry for Sandy, who’s obviously trying hard to make conversation, Jennie says, “A lot of inns don’t have television sets in the rooms, and some don’t have them in the public areas, either.”

“Why not?”

Jennie shrugs. “Probably to maintain authenticity, in this case. After all, television didn’t exist a hundred and twenty years ago, and that’s probably when this place was built.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right—you’re an antique dealer, aren’t you?” Sandy asks. “You must love this place. Everything looks really old.”

“It is.” Jennie runs her fingertips over the curved arm of her chair, noting the worn spot in the nubby raspberry-colored fabric.

“My room looks like it popped out of a Laura Ashley catalogue,” Sandy tells her. “I love it. But I don’t think my brothers would be crazy about it. I guess not all the rooms are so frilly.”

“Probably not,” Jennie agrees, though her room has lilac-sprigged wallpaper and a lace-covered canopy bed.

Liza, who hadn’t even appeared to be listening, comments, “I don’t know about that. My room looks like it was decorated for a ten-year-old girl. The wallpaper’s covered in pink roses, and the bedspread has eyelet trim. Definitely not up my alley.”

“Well, I think my room’s beautiful,” Sandy says, almost defiantly. “How about you, Laura?”

Jennie nods.

“I’ll bet you have all kinds of antiques in your house in Boston, too,” Sandy says. “What kind of place do you live in?”

“It’s an apartment, actually.” Jennie shifts on her chair.

“Do you live alone?”

“No.” Then, because she knows Sandy is waiting for her to elaborate, she adds, “I live with my sister.”

“What does she do?”

“She works at the Gap. Liza,” Jennie said, turning away from Sandy in an effort to change the subject, “what part of New York do you live in?”

“Manhattan. The Upper East Side.”

Jennie nods, because there isn’t much to say to that. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be up in her room, alone, where no one is prying into her personal life and where she doesn’t have to make forced conversation with strangers.

Or, better yet, she wishes she were back in her familiar town house in Boston, even with Laura blasting Pearl Jam from the stereo and spilling something or other on the carpet or upholstery. And it’s a Friday night, so right about now, Keegan would probably be on his way over with a pizza. . . .

No,
she corrects mentally.
He wouldn’t be. Not anymore.

It’s so hard to believe she’ll never spend another night with Keegan—cuddled on the couch under the antique wedding-ring quilt she’d bought at her first auction, watching a video and eating pizza and wearing matching thick gray cotton socks with red-banded tops, the kind that are toasty warm but tend to unravel in the laundry, leaving red threads all over everything.

Jennie thinks about how Keegan always likes to have his feet sticking out of the bottom of the quilt—he can’t sleep with them covered, either. He has huge feet, and so does she—he always teased her that when they had kids, they would have to order special custom-made giant baby shoes.

When
they had kids—not
if.

Keegan was always so certain of their relationship, right from the start. But then, he’s like that about almost everything—casually confident, breezing through life with an easygoing, happy-go-lucky assurance that things will go his way.

Jennie pictures the stark pain that took over his handsome features when she told him it was over. Pain, and surprise, as though he couldn’t believe she would do this to him—that she would abandon him.

She feels a stab of sorrow in the vicinity of her heart—a distinct physical sensation that nearly takes her breath away.

This must be what people mean when they talk about heartache,
she realizes.

“Laura?” Sandy says loudly.

Jennie blinks. “Yeah?”

“You’re on another planet, aren’t you? I was talking to you and you were looking right through me.”

“Oh, I, uh—I’m sorry.” Jennie is about to stand up and excuse herself when Jasper Hammel suddenly shows up carrying a cherrywood tray. He has a way of doing that—appearing with no warning.

“All right, ladies, here we are. Coffee and a rich dessert—just the thing for a blustery February night.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Liza says, rising. “I’m pretty exhausted.”

But her sharp green eyes don’t look sleepy. She seems edgy—as edgy as Jennie feels.

“Oh, come on, now. . . . You have to taste my torte,” Jasper informs Liza firmly, putting a porcelain pedestal mug into her hand and motioning for her to sit down again.

She does; and once again, her eyes collide with Jennie’s. Her expression is wary. Jennie instinctively realizes that Liza, too, is uneasy about this place and this man.

Sandy, on the other hand seems oblivious. She happily accepts a mug and a plate and tells Jasper that the torte looks “yummy.”

Liza catches Jennie’s gaze again when Sandy says it, and this time, she rolls her eyes.

Jennie quickly looks away. Sandy might be a little on the immature side, but she’s a nice person.

Liza, on the other hand, is something of a bitch, and Jennie isn’t particularly eager to align herself with her.

Again, she wishes she were back at home in Boston. She would give anything to have Keegan’s arms around her right now.

Because Keegan has always made her feel safe.

And right now, for some reason she can’t pinpoint, even as she sits in this quaint, quiet parlor, she feels vaguely threatened.

By what, she doesn’t know.

But it’s
real;
something dark and terrible—as dark and terrible as the nightmare that changed her life forever on that bloody day three years ago.

T
wo floors above the parlor, on the top floor of the inn, in an ancient, upholstered rocking chair, he sits and rocks and waits.

At one time, the attic room must have been servants’ quarters for the inn’s summer help. A deep, stained white porcelain sink and an ancient gas stove are tucked into an alcove. In another corner, behind a warped wooden door, there’s a tiny bathroom with a steep, sloping ceiling. There’s no shower, only a chipped claw foot bathtub. And the toilet no longer flushes on its own; he has to lift the tank, reach into the clammy water, and pull the chain.

He thinks of the enormous master bedroom suite back at his estate on Long Island’s north shore. It has a king-sized bed, a fireplace, and an adjoining Jacuzzi in a glass solarium with a sweeping view of the sound. It also has his-and-hers dressing rooms, each with its own private attached bathroom.

His dressing room and bathroom are cluttered with his belongings.

The other one—the one he’d intended for his bride—is empty.

It always has been.

Sighing, he flips to the first page of the photo album in his lap. It’s a special album, one that only has room for a single eight-by-ten picture on each page.

A wedding album, actually—bound in white leather, its cover stamped in gold with the words, “Our Wedding Memories.”

This first page belongs to Sandy. There’s an empty slot, waiting for the photograph he’ll place there.

He has already labeled the oval opening with an ivory place card that has a raised rectangular border, the kind of card you find on the tables at a wedding reception.

On it, he has meticulously lettered her name in calligraphy, using a special pen.

He remembers the day he went to the art supply store to buy that pen.

The clerk, a pretty blond in her teens, had smiled pleasantly at him and said, “Will that be all, sir? You don’t need a bottle of ink to go with it?”

He’d smiled back and said, “No, thank you. I have plenty of ink at home.”

It was a lie, of course.

He wasn’t planning on using ink at all.

Instead, he’d used his own blood.

It’s really quite lovely, he decides, studying the lettering on the card below the empty photo slot. Over the past few months, the blood has faded to a soft, brownish-maroon color that complements the rich ivory surface of the place card. Very elegant.

But this card isn’t permanent, of course.

He’ll replace it, very soon, with an exact replica.

Except that this time, the blood he’ll use to letter Sandy Cavelli’s name will be her own.

“S
andy?” Jasper Hammel asks. “Would you like another slice of the torte?”

“I really shouldn’t,” she says. After all, both Liza and Laura refused, and neither of them has even finished their first servings.

But she can’t help glancing at the rich chocolate concoction that’s still left on the doily-covered plate Jasper is offering.

“Oh, go ahead,” the man says, stepping closer to her and practically holding the torte under her nose. “Just a sliver?”

“All right,” she relents, because she’s never been able to resist anything chocolate.

I’ll do fifty sit-ups before bed tonight,
she promises herself as she holds up her dish to let Jasper serve her.

He spoons on the fresh raspberries and a generous dollop of whipped cream.

A hundred sit-ups,
Sandy amends, then stifles a yawn behind her hand.
If I can stay awake long enough.

Suddenly, she can’t wait to crawl into bed. Must be all this fresh sea air.

As Jasper discreetly heads back toward the kitchen with the torte, Sandy picks up her fork again and tries to return her attention to the conversation she and Laura had been having. Actually, she had been doing most of the talking, but she suddenly can’t remember what about.

Oh, yes. She had been telling Laura about her brothers.

“Anyway,” she says, cutting off a piece of the torte and raising it to her lips, “Danny is my youngest brother. He’s the only one who’s not in the plumbing and heating business with my dad. He’s a gym teacher at St. Agnes High.”

Laura nods.

Sandy swallows the bite of torte, then yawns again. “Oh, gosh, excuse me,” she says. “I’m really tired.”

“So am I.” Liza stands and places her mug and the delicate plate containing her half-eaten cake on a polished table beside her chair. “I’m going up to bed. Good night.”

“Night,” Laura murmurs.

“Good night. See you tomorrow,” Sandy calls after Liza, who doesn’t even turn around.