Jayne Ann Krentz (8 page)

Rafe wrapped his hands around the porch railing and gazed out over his grandfather's magnificent garden. A lot of people in Eclipse Bay gardened, but none of them could match Mitchell's spectacular display of lush ferns, herb borders, and rosebushes. A large greenhouse dominated the far end of the scene. Inside it were more horticultural wonders. A vegetable plot occupied a section near the house. Even in early fall when blooms were fading, Mitchell's garden was a work of art.

In the dark months after the death of their parents, Mitchell had taken his two grandsons into the garden a lot. The three of them had spent countless hours there. Mitchell had shown Rafe and Gabe how to prepare the ground, water the tomatoes, and trim rosebushes. They hadn't talked much, but Rafe knew that they had all found some solace in the work of growing things.

Mitchell had lived a turbulent life by anyone's standards. The years had seen the financial and personal devastation brought on by the destruction of Harte-Madison and the ensuing feud with his old army buddy, Sullivan Harte. The turmoil of four divorces and the breakup of innumerable affairs had taken a toll. The loss of his only son, Sinclair, had been a cruel blow. Rafe knew that the unexpected burden of raising two grandsons had come as a shock to a man who, until then, had not worried overmuch about his family responsibilities. But through it all, Mitchell had never lost his interest in gardening.

Gardening was Mitchell's passion. As everyone knew, when it came to a Madison and his passion, nothing was allowed to stand in the way.

Rafe went down the steps. “How'd you meet Octavia Brightwell?” he asked, partly out of curiosity and partly in a bid to find a neutral topic. Conversations between himself and Mitchell were fraught with problems.

For as long as he could remember, he had been at odds with his grandfather. In recent years they had achieved a prickly détente, but that was only because both of them had tacitly abandoned the open warfare that had characterized so much of their earlier communication. Some would say that they had matured, Rafe thought. But he and Mitchell knew the truth. They had both given up butting heads for the most part because it had become obvious that it was a pointless exercise. Which was not to say that they did not occasionally engage in the activity from time to time, just to stay in practice.

They had both been on their best behavior throughout dinner this evening, he reflected. True, things had been a little tense for a few minutes after he walked in the front door with Hannah, but to his credit, Mitchell had recovered quickly. Rafe's theory was that the older man was determined to play the genial host in front of his new girlfriend.

Octavia Brightwell was, indeed, young enough to be Mitchell's granddaughter. She came as a surprise to Rafe. She had proved to be warm, friendly, and intelligent. He could tell that Hannah had liked her on sight. During the course of the conversation at dinner Octavia had explained that the gallery she had opened in Eclipse Bay was her second. The first was in Portland. This summer she had divided her time between the two locations.

“She stuck her head over my garden fence one morning at the beginning of summer and told me that I was handling my roses all wrong.” Mitchell snorted. “Told her I'd been dealing with roses since before she was born. She brought me a book on how to grow roses. Told me to read a few pages. I told her the author of the book was a damn fool. You might say we just hit it off.”

“I see.” Rafe watched Mitchell pause to remove a dead bloom from a rosebush.

Something twisted deep inside him at the sight of his grandfather's hawklike profile. It hit him that the old warrior with whom he had fought so many battles would not be around forever. It was difficult to imagine the world without Mitchell.

The tough, irascible Mitchell had the usual Madison flaws, Rafe thought, but he had been the one solid anchor in his grandsons' lives since the day their father's motorcycle had collided with a truck.

Rafe thought about the mysterious weekly trips to Portland. If there was something seriously wrong, it did not show. Mitchell used a cane, but he still looked strong and fit. He could have passed for a man fifteen years younger. There was a sharp glint in his slightly faded green eyes. The hard lines of his face had softened little with age. There was a slight stoop to his shoulders these days, and he had lost some muscle with the years, but the physical changes were well concealed by his undiminished will and determination to control his world and everyone in it.

“I take it you and Octavia spend a lot of time together,” Rafe said as casually as possible.

“Some.” Mitchell nipped off another dead rose.

This was not going to work, Rafe decided. If Mitchell did not want to discuss his relationship with Octavia Brightwell, that was the end of the matter. His grandfather had never talked much about his affairs and liaisons over the years. When it came to women, he lived by an old-fashioned code. A man did not kiss and tell. He had drilled that same cardinal rule into both Rafe and Gabe.

Rafe went down the steps and came to a halt on the path beside Mitchell, who was examining a cluster of ferns.

“I understand you've been going into Portland on a regular basis,” Rafe said. “To see Octavia?”

“Nope.” Mitchell snapped off another dead flower.

Rafe knew that was the end of that conversation. Gabe would have been better at this, he thought

Mitchell squinted at him. “What the hell are you and Hannah Harte going to do with that damned house?”

“We haven't decided.”

“Huh. Just like Isabel to do something crazy like this in her will. She had some romantic notion about you and Hannah patching up the old feud. Told her she was an idiot.”

“Telling her that she was an idiot was probably not real helpful.”

Mitchell grunted again. “Nobody more contrary than a Harte.”

“Except a Madison.”

Mitchell didn't deny it. “You look pretty friendly with Hannah.”

“I wouldn't say we've reached the friendly stage, but her dog likes me. That's a start.”

“Heard she built herself a nice little business in Portland. Organizes weddings or some such nonsense.”

“Yeah. She says she gets a lot of repeat clients.”

“She's a Harte, and that's not an easy fact to overlook. But I've got to admit that she's got gumption.” A thoughtful expression gleamed in Mitchell's eyes. “Never forgot what she did eight years ago. Always felt like we owed her something for the way she backed you up.”

“I know.”

“There was some nasty talk around town for a while. The folks who believed her when she said she'd been with you on the beach that night assumed you'd seduced her just to score some points against the Hartes.”

“I heard that.”

Mitchell tapped his cane absently against the base of the sundial. “There are still one or two who think Hannah Harte flat out lied for you that night. They think you really did push Kaitlin Sadler off that cliff.”

Rafe felt the tension knot deep inside him. He'd always wondered if Mitchell had been one of those who secretly believed that he had been responsible for Kaitlin's fall.

“Bottom line,” Mitchell continued, “is that we're beholden to Hannah Harte.”

“Yeah.”

“Hate being beholden to a Harte,” Mitchell sighed.

“Like a bur under a saddle.”

Rafe looked at him. “Didn't know it bothered you all this time.”

“It did.”

“It's not your problem. It's mine.”

“You can say that again.” Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “What are you going to do about it? Give up your half of Isabel's house?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.” Mitchell started off in the direction of the greenhouse. “Come on. I'll show you my new hybrids.”

Rafe glanced back at the screen door. There was no sign of rescue. Reluctantly he trailed after Mitchell.

“I talked to Gabe a few days ago,” Mitchell said.

Rafe steeled himself. “Did you?”

“He said he could find a place for you at Madison Commercial.” There was not a lot of hope in Mitchell's voice.

“Give me a break. Would you work for Gabe?”

“Hell, no.” Mitchell's brows bristled. “He expects everyone to jump when he gives an order.”

“That pretty much sums up my problem with him, too.”

Mitchell grunted. “Well, it was worth a try.”

They walked the length of the garden in silence. Just before they reached the greenhouse, Mitchell launched a salvo in an entirely new direction.

“Don't you think it's about time you got married?” he said.

Rafe felt as if he'd been hit in the head with a ball peen hammer. It took him several seconds to recover. He spent the intervening time with his mouth open.

“Married?” he finally managed. “Are you out of your mind? I tried it once, remember? It didn't work.”

“You're going to have to bite that bullet again, sooner or later. You've put it off long enough. If you wait too much longer you'll be so set in your ways you won't be able to adjust to marriage.”

“Since when did you become an expert on marriage?”

“I've had some experience.”

“You can say that again,” Rafe muttered. “For your information, I'm already set in my ways.”

“Bullshit. You're still young enough to be flexible.”

The door on the back porch opened. Both men spun around so quickly that Rafe was sure they looked guilty of something.

An ethereal-looking woman with a mane of fiery red curls stood in the opening.

“Coffee's ready,” Octavia Brightwell called cheerfully.

Rafe did not hesitate. He noticed that Mitchell didn't pause either. He figured his grandfather was just as relieved by the timely interruption as he was.

Side by side, they went swiftly back along the path toward the house.

Hannah slid her key into the front-door lock. “Not that you've got any reason to consider my opinion on the subject, but I liked Octavia.”

Beside her Rafe shrugged. “So did I. So what? She's still way too young for him. Gabe's right. It's embarrassing.”

Hannah was amused. “That's almost funny, coming from a Madison. No offense, but the men of your family aren't known for feeling shy or awkward about their sex lives.”

“It's different when it's your grandfather's sex life,” Rafe said glumly.

Hannah listened to the sound of dog claws prancing madly on the hardwood floor on the other side of the door. “Well, if it's any consolation to you, Octavia told me that she and your grandfather are just friends. I believe her.”

“Yeah?”

She gave him a quick, searching glance as she opened the door. He had been in a strange mood since returning from the after-dinner walk in the garden. Rafe had never been an easy man to read, but now there was a dark, brooding aura emanating from him that had not been present earlier in the evening. She wondered what had been said between him and his grandfather.

Winston bounced through the open door, torn as always, between the demands of professional dignity and blatant emotionalism.

“Such a handsome dog.” She bent down to pat him. “The finest specimen of Schnauzerhood in the known universe.”

Winston glowed.

Rafe watched them with an expression of morbid interest. “He actually believes you when you say that, you know.”

“So what? It's true.” She stood back to allow Winston to trot across the porch and down the steps. The dog paused briefly to thrust his nose into Rafe's hand, and then he disappeared discreetly into some bushes.

Hannah reached around the edge of the door and flipped a light switch. “I'm probably going to kick myself for getting involved, but I feel compelled to ask. Did things go okay between you and your grandfather out there in the garden?”

“Sure.” Rafe glided, uninvited, through the opening into the front hall.

“I see.” She was not quite certain what to do with him now that he was inside her house.

She held the door open for Winston. He pranced across the porch and into the hall. He headed straight for Rafe.

Hannah closed the door and leaned back against it. Rafe crouched to scratch the dog's ears. Winston promptly sat down and assumed a blissful expression.

“There was the usual stuff,” Rafe said after a moment.

“The usual stuff?”

Rafe kept his attention on Winston, who was clearly ready, willing, and able to absorb an unlimited amount of it. “Mitchell reminded me that it wasn't too late to join Madison Commercial.”

“Ah, yes. The usual.” She straightened away from the door and walked into the kitchen. When in doubt, make a cup of tea. “And you gave him the usual response, no doubt.”

“Well, sure. That's how Mitchell and I communicate. He tells me what I should do, and I tell him I won't do it. We understand each other perfectly.”