Flare, p.12
Flare, page 12
I half expect the ghosts of owners past to emerge from the stone walls.
Rory and I sit in front of a stack of cardboard boxes, an electric heater buzzing next to us.
Rory rubs her hands together in front of it. “I didn’t expect it to be freezing down here.”
“This is an old house. I wonder if it’s been in Ennis’s family for decades. Maybe centuries.”
“I doubt it,” Rory says. “I didn’t get the impression that he comes from a lot of money.”
“True. I didn’t get that impression either. You’re probably right. He purchased this house with money from his earnings from my family.” I sigh. “You can say a lot about my family—and based on recent research, plenty of it isn’t good—but they do take care of their own. Ennis was the first winemaker for Steel Vineyards, and now they’re taking care of him.”
“Why would he want to live in such an old house?”
“Because it’s gorgeous,” I say. “Big and beautiful and very English, I might add.”
Rory laughs. “True.” She scoots a box toward her. “I guess we start.” She takes one of the box cutters supplied by Havisham and slides it under the tape securing the cardboard.
I grab another.
“I should’ve known by how heavy this was,” she says. “It’s books.”
“I suppose we don’t need to look through them.”
“I don’t think a shoebox full of trinkets from a long-lost love is in here, but we may find some clue.”
“What kind of clue?”
“I don’t know. A flower pressed between the pages?”
I smile. “I never pegged you for a romantic, Rory.”
“I never pegged myself for one either, but I definitely peg Ennis as one.” She pulls out a book, opens the cover. “No inscription.” Then she leafs through the pages. “And no flower between the pages either. No evidence here.” She sets it aside and takes the next book.
She goes through four more books, until she gasps.
“Brock, this is one of your mother’s books.”
I take the book from her and smooth my fingers over its cover. “This was her first book.” I open it. “Wow, it’s a first edition.”
“Maybe worth some money.”
“I doubt it. I mean, my mother’s a great author, and one of her later books did hit the New York Times list, but books on childhood trauma and psychology are rarely worth what, say, a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird would be.”
“Still,” she says, “it’s pretty awesome to see.”
“We have first editions of all my mom’s books at home,” I say.
She reddens a bit. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t think of that.”
“This is her first book, though, and it was written before she met my father.”
“So Ennis was still living in Colorado then.”
“Yeah. We already knew that. He lived on our land for a while after he retired. But this book was written before my mom and my dad, which means she gifted it to him—” I stop, my mind racing.
“What?”
“Maybe she didn’t gift it to him. Maybe he bought it.”
“You think? Why would he be interested in a book on childhood trauma?”
I open the book. “There’s no inscription. If my mom had given him the book, she would’ve signed it.”
“You should be a detective,” Rory says.
“I’ve just learned a lot from Aunt Ruby over the years. How to look for clues that you don’t think would be clues.”
“So…Ennis most likely purchased this book rather than getting it from your mom. Which means he has an interest in the subject. It doesn’t necessarily mean he has any experience with childhood trauma.”
“No… But he did have a good friend who had experience in childhood trauma. My grandmother.”
“We could ask him about it,” I say. “But it doesn’t really have anything to do with Patty. Not on the surface anyway.” Still, I set the book aside. I’m not sure why, but I feel like it may be important.
Rory continues going through the rest of the books. “Nothing in any of these books. No flowers, no love poetry, no letters.”
“So you’re no longer a romantic?” I gibe her.
“You know? I think maybe I am. I never thought I was until…”
I lift my eyebrows. “You met me?”
“Until I met the infamous Rake-a-teer.” She smiles. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think you’re right. I certainly didn’t set out to fall in love with you.”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t set out to fall in love with you either.”
“Maybe we’re both romantics. Maybe we just never knew it. Maybe it just took the right person to turn us both into mush.”
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “I love you, sweetheart, but do not ever refer to me as mush again.”
She giggles, places all the books—with the exception of my mother’s—back into the box, and grabs another.
Meanwhile, I’m still going through my box, which is mostly old clothes. Another dead end.
“Bingo!” Rory pulls out an old shoebox. “It even has Patty written on it in permanent marker.” She begins to lift the lid.
But I stop her, placing my hand on hers. “Wait a minute.”
“Why?”
“I feel like we should have a moment of silence or something. I feel like we’re disturbing this woman’s grave.”
“I hate to tell you, Brock, but if those bones you found on your property are hers? Her grave was disturbed long ago.”
She’s right of course. But for some reason, I feel like this is a sacred moment. I’m not a religious person, but shouldn’t we say a few words?
I’m being silly, I know. For all we know, the disappearance and death of Patty Watson has nothing to do with what’s going on with my family now. With the dead bodies, the GPS coordinates left for Donny, the sudden reappearance and then disappearance of a ring that once belonged to my grandmother, and the various documents found at Brendan Murphy’s place.
But perhaps we can at least give Ennis Ainsley some peace. It’s a long shot, but if there’s something in this box that can tie those bones to Patty, he will finally be able to say goodbye.
I move my hand from Rory’s. “Go ahead.”
She pulls the lid off the box. The first thing she pulls out is a pair of white cotton panties. She grimaces. “I don’t want to think of Ennis Ainsley as a dirty old man or a panty sniffer, but this is kind of…you know.”
“He wasn’t a dirty old man when he kept these,” I say. “He was a dirty young man. Except that that’s not such a dirty thing. If I lost you tomorrow, sweetheart, I would need something to remember you by, and…your scent would be on your panties. It’s not like he pays to sniff women’s underwear. This is a memento. Something that probably gave him a little bit of comfort at the time.”
“If you say so.” She sets the panties down and takes the next item from the box. “What do you know? It’s an old cassette tape.”
“Say what?”
Rory holds it up. “My dad has a few of these that were my grandfather’s. They’re audio recordings. There’s writing on the top. It says Patty’s favorites.”
“Music she liked?”
“Most likely. We can ask Ennis, although I don’t know that we’d get any clues from her favorite tune.” Rory pulls out the next item. “Here’s the perfume he mentioned. It’s called Fresh and Light.” She spritzes a little into her wrist and sniffs. “Ugh. Smells mostly like alcohol.”
“Well, it’s over half a century old.”
She sets the perfume aside and pulls out the next item. “Eureka! It’s a hair tie…and there are a few red hairs on it.”
“Are you kidding?” My heart jumps.
“Nope.” She hands it to me.
“This is a hair tie?” It’s made out of a thin elastic type material, and it has two plastic balls on each end.
“Yeah,” she says. “I had to think for a second, but yeah, it’s a hair tie. First of all, it has red hairs on it, and second of all, I remember my mom talking about hair ties like this when she was a kid. She said my grandma would pull her hair back into a tight ponytail, and sometimes she’d lose hold of the tie, and the plastic balls would hit Mom in the head. She said it hurt like hell.”
“And they don’t make these anymore?” I ask.
“Why would they? They sound like torture devices to me. Besides, you’ve never seen one.”
“Well, no, but I’m not a woman, and I didn’t grow up with any sisters.”
“Fair enough.”
“But this could be a gold mine. I have no idea if these hairs are viable, but at least it’s something. Is there anything else in the box?”
“Yeah,” Rory says. “Take a look.” She scoots the box over to me, and we both glance inside together. “I was right. Ennis was definitely a romantic.”
Dried roses. The petals line the bottom of the box, but one or two of the buds are still intact.
“These are short-stemmed roses,” Rory says. “For the thrifty romantic. Long-stemmed can sometimes be too expensive.”
“Or one of them could’ve picked them,” I say. “My mom picks roses all the time from her gardens.”
“Could very well be. We’ll have to ask Ennis.”
“Let’s put everything back in the box,” I say. “I hope he’ll let us take the stuff with us so we can have it all analyzed.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then we have to respect his wishes,” I say. “This is his stuff.”
“Should we go through the rest of these boxes?” Rory asks.
“I don’t think there’s any need to further violate his privacy. We found the shoebox.”
“I agree.” She closes the box. “Havisham can come down here and retape these.”
I grab the shoebox and help Rory to her feet. “How long have we been down here?”
She looks at her watch. “About an hour and a half.”
“Still about half an hour before dinner, then,” I say. “Maybe we can talk to Ennis now. This stuff isn’t exactly good dinner conversation.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Rory
Ennis was napping before dinner, so we didn’t have time to talk to him until dinner anyway, which is now being served in a formal dining room.
For such an affair, I’m expecting a four- or five-course dinner, but Ennis surprises us.
“I told Havisham to order from one of my favorite restaurants this evening. I wasn’t sure the two of you would enjoy English food, so we’re having Italian.”
Actually, I would love to try a traditional English dinner, but we can go to a restaurant tomorrow evening.
Havisham serves us veal Marsala, broccoli with basil, and a side of spaghetti marinara, already plated. On our bread plates, he sets white bread with individual cruets of olive oil.
“We don’t stand on ceremony here, regardless of Havisham’s manners. Please. Dig in.”
Brock smiles. “I think that’s an American phrase.”
“I lived in your country for the better part of my life,” Ennis says. “Except for the accent, I’m more American than I am English now.”
“We found the shoebox, Ennis.” Brock dips his bread in some olive oil.
“Oh, good. I’m glad I still have it after all these years. Was there anything in there that can help you?”
“We think there may be.” Brock clears his throat. “We’d like your permission to take the box and its contents back with us to the States.”
Ennis frowns.
For a moment, I’m not sure he’s going to allow us to take it, and this will have all been for nothing.
But then, “Of course. I knew when I let you look that I would have to part with those things. You do what you need to do, Brock.”
“Thank you so much,” Brock says.
“Yes, thank you,” I echo. “Brock and I understand how much this stuff means to you, and we will return it intact if we can.”
Ennis sighs and takes a sip of the Chianti next to his plate. “No. Don’t worry about that. I don’t have many years left in this life, and the more I’ve lived and the older I’ve gotten, the more I understand that things really don’t matter. Things can be gone in an instant. What matters are people. Relationships.” He swallows back a choke. “Memories.”
His words touch my heart. Their truth flows through me, and even though my family lost its livelihood in that fire, I know we will survive. Because we are all here. We have each other.
No matter what Pat Lamone tries to do to Callie and me, she and I will survive.
And the Steel family? They will survive. They always do.
But Patty Watson? Beautiful, vivacious, redheaded Patty Watson? Her life was taken from her. And somehow her bones ended up on the Steel property.
Life is so unfair to some.
“Tell me,” Ennis says, “how is Ryan?”
“He’s good,” Brock says. “Did you ever meet his daughters?”
“Only the first one, Ava. I returned to England shortly after she was born.”
“You wouldn’t recognize her now,” I say. “She’s the rebel of the Steel family. She wears her hair in this gorgeous pink color.”
Ennis smiles. “Does she? Do you have photos?”
“I do,” Brock says. “I have photos of all my family. I’d be happy to show them to you after dinner.”
“I’d like that a lot.”
“Ryan and his wife, Ruby, will celebrate their anniversary soon,” Brock says.
“Yes, I remember. Thanksgiving. I always loved that American holiday. Imagine, a whole holiday devoted to being thankful. Sometimes we forget to express gratitude for all that we have. Sometimes we…”
I glance at Brock. He slightly shakes his head at me.
Silence, until—
“I’m sorry,” Ennis says. “I get a little emotional about Patty, but it does help to remember all that I have to be thankful for. Tell me. How are Dale and Donny?”
“They’re good,” Brock says. “Dale is the master winemaker now.”
Ennis smiles. “I knew he would be. Even when he was young, I could see he had the gift. He was so creative. So quiet and contemplative, but creative. And Donny?”
“The city attorney for Snow Creek,” Brock says. “Aunt Jade retired.”
“Did she?” Ennis chuckles. “I never thought I’d see that day.”
Brock and I smile.
But Ennis’s countenance changes, goes darker. “Your family has been through so much,” he says. “Jade was a light for your uncle. A light he badly needed.”
“So you were there when…” Brock doesn’t finish.
“When Talon came home? When they solved the mystery of his abduction? Yes, I was there. I lived all of it. You see, I was there when Talon was taken.”
Brock widens his eyes. “Of course you were. You…” He clears his throat. “You know more about our family history than I do, Ennis.”
I stay quiet. This is a moment for Brock and for Ennis, and I’m out of the loop. Talon was taken? So much I still don’t know.
Putting it all together… It’s like…
I don’t even know what it’s like. Because I don’t even know the full story.
Ennis takes a bite of veal, chews, swallows.
“I look forward to seeing the photos,” he says. “And I look forward to hearing what you find out about Patty. Perhaps then… Perhaps then I can finally say goodbye.”
Brock does his best to show me a good time the next day. We spend the day sight-seeing around London, and part of me loves it. Seeing Buckingham Palace, the changing of the guard, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey… All the sights. Even riding on the tube.
We stop and have a meat pie on Fleet Street. Brock knew I’d enjoy the nod to Sweeney Todd.
The part of me who’s never been to England—heck, who’s never been out of the United States—adores it and wishes we could spend more time here.
But the other part of me—the part that’s consumed with what’s going on in both of our families—just wants to go home.
We’re both exhausted after traipsing around London all day, and our flight leaves early in the morning. Still, I want to try a traditional English meal, so Brock indulges me at a fine restaurant.
The result? After roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and plain white rolls, I’m convinced English food is exactly what everyone says it is—starchy and carb-centric and filling.
And a bit plain.
Brock and I both enjoy the meal, though. He orders a pint of the restaurant’s finest, served from draft, and I relent and take one sip. It’s so good I can almost forget about the plainness of the meal.
We’re both too full for dessert, so we head back to the hotel.
“You’re quiet,” Brock says to me back in our suite.
“I know. Thank you for a wonderful day. I loved every minute of it.”
“Did you?”
“I did. Truly. It’s just hard to keep my mind on what we’re doing.”
“I know.” He sighs. “I swear to God, sweetheart, once all this mess is in the past, I’m going to take you on a trip all over the world. We’ll come back here to London, and we’ll enjoy it. Then we’ll go to Paris. We’ll go to Dubai. Barcelona. Athens. Prague. Every wonderful place. And we’ll do it in style, and we’ll do it worry-free.”
I touch his cheek, loving how his stubble scrapes my fingertips. “I don’t think anyone is ever truly worry-free, Brock.”
“Maybe not, but this will end, Rory. I promise you. It will end. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll help my family get through whoever or whatever is trying to take us down, and I’ll help you and Callie through the mess with my so-called half second cousin. It will end. I promise you that.”
I fall into his arms then. Our lips meet. Our lips meet in a kiss that takes us away from the horrors we’re both going through.
A kiss that promises a new dawn.
We stand there, fully clothed, kissing.
For a long, long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
