Buried Sins. Marta Perry
her name badge. “What does the C stand for? Celeste? Christina? Catherine?”
“Caroline. Caro, for short. And you are?”
“Anthony Gibson. Tony, for short.” He extended his hand, and she slid hers into it with the pleasurable sense that something good was beginning.
“It’s nice to meet you, Tony.”
He held her hand between both of his. “Not nearly as nice as the reverse.” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “I have a meeting with Ms. Carrington about the Carrington Foundation charity drive. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Might you be ready for coffee or lunch by then?”
“I might.”
“I’ll see you then.”
He’d walked away toward the stairs, his figure slim, elegant and cool against the crowd of tourists who’d just come in. Well, she’d thought. Something could come of this.
Something had, she thought now, shoving the quilt back and getting out of bed, toes curling into the rag rug that covered the oak planks of the flooring. It just hadn’t been something nice.
She would not stay in bed. If there was one thing she’d learned in the weeks of her disillusionment about her marriage, the weeks of grief, it was that at four o’clock in the morning, thoughts were better faced upright.
She pulled her robe around her body, tying it snugly. She wouldn’t go back to sleep now in any event, so she may as well finish the unpacking she’d been too tired to do earlier. She slung one of the suitcases on the bed and began taking things out, methodically filling the drawers of the tall oak dresser that stood on one side of the bed. The loft was small, but the design of closets and chests gave plenty of storage.
Storage for more than she’d brought with her, actually. She’d packed in such a rush that it was a wonder she even had matching socks. Anything she hadn’t had room for had been picked up by the moving company for shipment here. When it arrived, she would figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.
Especially Tony’s things. Maybe having them out of her life would help her adjust.
She paused, hands full of T-shirts. When had it begun, that sense that all was not right with Tony? Was it as early as their impulsive elopement, when his credit card hadn’t worked, and they’d had to use hers? It had grown gradually over the weeks, fueled by the phone calls in the middle of the night, the money that vanished from her checking account, to be replaced a day or two later with only a plausible excuse.
The fear had solidified the evening she’d answered his cell phone while he was in the shower. He’d exploded from the bathroom, dripping and furious, to snatch it from her hands. She’d never seen him like that—had hoped never to again.
Yet she’d seen it once again on the night she’d confronted him, the day she’d realized that her savings account had been wiped out. She still cringed, sick inside, at the thought of the quarrel that followed. She’d always thought she was good in an argument, but she’d never fought the way Tony had, with cold, icy, acid-filled comments that left her humiliated and defenseless.
Then he’d gone, and in the morning the police had come to say he was dead.
She dropped a stack of sweaters on the bed and shoved her hands back through her unruly mop. This was no good. The bad memories were pursuing her even when she had her hands occupied.
She’d go downstairs, make some coffee, see what Rachel had tucked into the refrigerator. She’d feel better once she had some food inside her, able to face the day and figure out where her life was going now.
Shoving her feet into slippers, she started down the open stairway that led into the great room that filled the whole ground-level space. Kitchen flowed into dining area and living room, with its massive leather couch in front of a fieldstone hearth.
She’d start a fire in the fireplace one evening. She’d put some of her own books on the shelves and set up a work table under the skylight. She’d make it hers, in a sense.
She went quickly into the galley kitchen, finding everything close at hand, and measured coffee into the maker that sat on the counter. The familiar, homey movements steadied her. She was safe here. She could take as much time as she needed to plan. There was no hurry.
A loaf of Emma’s fruit-and-nut bread rested on the cutting board. She sliced off a couple of thick pieces and popped them in the toaster. She had family. Maybe she’d needed this reminder. She had people who cared what happened to her.
She could forget that sense of being watched that had dogged her since Tony’s death. She shivered a little, pulling her robe more tightly around her while she waited for the toast and coffee. She’d confided that in only one person, telling Francine about her urge to give up the apartment, get rid of Tony’s things, try to go back to the way she’d been before she met him.
Her boss had been comforting and sympathetic, probably the more so because it hadn’t been that many months since she’d lost her own husband.
“I know what I was like after Garner’s death,” she’d said, flicking a strand of ash-blond hair back with a perfectly manicured nail. “I could hardly stand to stay in that big house at night by myself. Jumping at every sound.” She’d nodded wisely. “But what you need is stability. All the grief counselors say that. Don’t make any big changes in your life, just give yourself time to heal. And remember, I’m always here for you.”
Caro smiled faintly as the toast popped up and busied herself buttering it and pouring coffee into a thick, white mug. Dear Francine. She probably didn’t think of herself as the nurturing type, but she’d certainly tried her best to help Caro through a difficult time.
The smile wavered. Except that their situations weren’t quite the same. Garner had died peacefully in his bed of a heart attack that was not unexpected. Tony had plunged off a mountain road after a furious quarrel with his wife, leaving behind more unanswered questions than she could begin to count.
And it hadn’t been grief or an overactive imagination. Someone had been watching her. She shivered at the thought of that encounter in the plaza. Someone who claimed Tony owed him an impossible amount of money. Someone who claimed Tony was alive.
She hadn’t told Francine about that incident. She would the next time they talked. Francine had known Tony longer than she had. She might have some insight that eluded her.
Something tapped on the living room window. She jerked around so abruptly that coffee sloshed out of the mug onto the granite countertop. She pressed her hand down on the cool counter, staring.
Nothing but blackness beyond the window. The security lights that illuminated the back of the inn didn’t extend around the corner of the barn.
A branch, probably, from the forsythia bush she’d noticed budding near the building. The wind had blown it against the glass.
Except that there was no wind. Her senses, seeming preternaturally alert, strained to identify any unusual sound. Useless. To her, all the sounds here were unfamiliar.
Something tapped again, jolting her heartbeat up a notch. The building could make dozens of noises for all she knew. And everything was locked up. Rachel had shown her, when she’d helped bring her things in, still worried at the idea of her staying alone. But even Rachel hadn’t anticipated fear, just loneliness.
How do you know that’s not what it is? You’re hearing things, imagining things, out of stress, grief, even guilt. Especially guilt. Tony might be alive today if that quarrel hadn’t sent him raging out onto the mountain road.
She shoved that thought away with something like panic. She would not think that, could not believe that.
Setting the mug on the countertop, she turned to the window. The only reasonable thing to do was to check and see if something was there. And she was going to be reasonable, remember? No more impulsive actions. Just look where that had gotten her.
She