CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

The bakery smelled like heaven.

The aromas of fresh ground coffee, cinnamon, and baking bread melded together in the tiny shop, where booths lined the walls and a few tables were scattered in front of the glass case displaying pastries. A few other customers were seated with steaming cups and strewn newspapers or open laptops.

"I'd like a tall pumpkin spice latte," Brooke said to the barista. In pigtail buns, a nose ring, and a white apron emblazoned with Gina's Bakery in bright red embroidery, she asked, "For here?"

"No, no. To go. And a loaf of sourdough. No, wait, can you add half a dozen cinnamon rolls?"

"Sure," she said brightly. "You got it."

Brooke had been the first one up. She and Shep had left Neal and Marilee sleeping as they'd caught the first ferry into town for a few last-minute things. She'd already picked up fresh clams from the fish market located next to the bait store at the marina and then made her way past empty buildings, a few secondhand shops, a local realty company, and the two 1950s-era motels. There were other small businesses as well: a craft shop displaying quilts and macramé wall hangings and a pub, closed at this hour. Farther along, behind a sporting goods store, the white spire of the Catholic church downtown rose to the dark heavens.

Now, inside the bakery, she waited, looking past a man in a stocking cap to the paned window and the storm brewing outside. The sky was gray and dark, dawn offering little light, so that the Christmas decorations on the light poles—starfish and seahorses—were still glowing.

"Brooke?" she heard and turned around to find the owner herself, Gina Duquette, standing at the open window separating the counter from the kitchen area, where large wooden tables and two huge ovens were visible. "Brooke Fletcher?" the little woman asked. With her white hair pinned beneath a net and rimless glasses over wide blue eyes, she was eyeing Brooke.

"It's Harmon now," Brooke said.

"That's right, that's right!" Gina was nodding. "Of course. I knew that. Though I've never met your hubby."

"Seriously?" Brooke said.

"I'm sure I would remember. I never forget a face, you know. Names—well, I've never been good with them, but faces—that's different."

Brooke decided she was probably right. Most of their time here in Oregon was spent on the island and if she or Neal ever ran to town for supplies, they usually made the trip separately. "I'll introduce you," she promised.

"Good. So you're here for the holidays?"

"That's the plan."

"You picked a good time. We've already got snow falling and they're forecasting more on the way—a possible blizzard, if you can believe that! Anyway, we're having a white Christmas! Isn't it just wonderful?"

"Great," she agreed.

"I live on the island, you know, just down the street from your place. I have to boat over here myself because Zeke, he's the ferryman; you know, Zeke Owens? Well, he doesn't want to make a three a.m. run, you know. Baker's hours." She chuckled at her little joke. "I hate to see your house so empty. Your grandma wouldn't like it, you know. Good Lord, what's it been since you've been here?"

"A while," Brooke said evasively. "A couple of years or so."

The old lady was nodding. "Good thing your sister comes up to check on the place."

"What?" Brooke eyed the woman as the espresso machine hissed. "Leah?"

"Mm."

"I don't think so." She had to be mistaken.

Gina's silvering eyebrows pinched together. "I'm sure I saw her. With her husband. Yes." Scratching the side of her face thoughtfully, she nodded, as if agreeing with herself. "What was it? Now I remember. Just after Labor Day, I think; the tourist season was winding down. I remember because she bought the last of the peach tarts and another customer came in wanting some. Dorothy Latimer, and boy, was she mad that she'd missed out." She chuckled to herself. "I went to school with Dot. She's got a temper, that one does!"

The bell over the door tinkled as a couple in ski jackets, gloves, and wool caps entered.

"I don't think Leah's been here in years," Brooke clarified.

"No?" Gina worried her lip. "Hmm. I'm pretty sure I saw a car at the house in the drive, you know, and lights on inside, and them walking on the beach, but maybe I was mistaken and—" A timer buzzed behind her. "Well, whatever. Merry Christmas." She turned away. "Holy Toledo! Is anyone getting the cardamom rolls out of the oven?"

"Pumpkin latte?" The girl behind the counter offered Brooke a steaming paper cup and a crisp white sack filled with her order of baked goods before she turned her attention to the next customer, a lanky man wearing a hat with earflaps and a too-tight jacket.

Brooke thought Gina had gotten it wrong about Leah. And as far as she knew, Sean Moore was out of the picture and Leah hadn't married again. She'd barely had time. Then again, with her sister, anything was possible.

As for Labor Day, that was a whirlwind time. St. Bernadette's had barely started for the year and Brooke had been on the phone with her daughter and the school almost every day while still navigating her new job. Neal too had been super-busy, flying to the Bay Area because of a new case.

As for Leah, who knew?

Still lost in thought, Brooke drove to the ferry and wedged her car in the last slot behind a battered pickup with plastic taped over the back window. The first flakes of snow were beginning to fall. She watched them melt against her windshield while sipping her latte. The ride across the water was a little rough, the water in the bay choppy, and by the time they docked on the island she realized she'd forgotten to pick up a lighter and laundry detergent, so she took a chance that she could find both items at Piper's Landing, a small store located near the ferry slip.

The shop was small and compact, with wood floors that were from a previous century and two coolers that weren't much younger. The limited shelves were filled with convenience items, but she was lucky enough to locate a small box of laundry detergent and a pack of disposable lighters.

Brooke paid for the items at the register where Hank Thatcher, son of the original owners, was working the register while watching a small TV mounted above the cereal racks. Currently a game show from the seventies was airing. "Hey," she said as he handed her the purchases. "Thanks for returning Neal's wallet."

"What?" Near seventy, he was a tall, bearded man with an advancing waist and receding hairline. He favored flannel shirts, rubber boots, and jeans held up by suspenders. "Neal?" he said.

"Right. Neal. My husband."

"Oh right. He was in here yesterday." Hank nodded, as if remembering. "But I don't know anything about a wallet."

"He said he left it here but came back for it?"

"Huh." Hank wrapped a meaty hand behind the back of his neck and looked out the window in thought. "Nope. Didn't happen. I waited on him. I remember because he wanted cash back off his card and we don't do that here. Never have."

"Oh."

"I do remember he bought coffee and drank it while he was on the phone for a while. Outside. Pacing on the porch there." He nodded at the plate-glass window with its neon OPEN sign visible in reverse. "Then, when he got in his rig he talked for a while before he took off. I remember because he was still on the phone when he got out again and threw away his cup in the trash can by the door, there," Hank pointed to the tall trash bin nearby. "Then he took off."

"So how long was he out there on the phone?" she asked, trying to piece together what was happening, why Neal had lied.

"Geez, I dunno." Scratching at his chin, he narrowed his eyes. "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I'd guess."

She remembered seeing Neal on his phone behind the open door of the woodshed. She hadn't thought too much about it and told herself not to worry about it now. He could talk to whomever he wanted to.

But why lie about it?

For a second she thought of Jennifer Adkins, and her stomach knotted painfully as she sprinted through the snow to her car. Had Neal taken up with her again?

Or was it something else?

Something completely innocent?

She fired the engine and caught a glimpse of her own eyes in the mirror, eyes dark with suspicion. Because of the simple little deception. Her first instinct was to drive home and call him out, to demand to know what was going on, but she told herself to wait, not make trouble.

Their little family seemed more solid than it had been in years.

She didn't want to ruin that, not with Marilee, not at Christmas.

With Leah coming to visit it would be tough enough.

She clicked on the wipers; the snow was falling steadily now, flakes collecting on the windshield.

The lies, she thought, it always came down to the lies.

Once home, Brooke found Marilee curled on the couch with a blanket, Shep at her side, a fire burning. Earbuds in place, blanket wrapped around her, Marilee was deep into her iPad, while coffee perked in the kitchen.

"Good morning," Brooke called and Shep lifted his head, stretched, and yawned, finally deigning to climb to his feet and follow Brooke into the kitchen. Marilee too finally glanced up and smiled.

"Morning."

"Hungry?"

But Marilee was already involved in her iPad again, and as Brooke set the groceries on the kitchen counter she spied Neal in his makeshift den, little more than a desk shoved under the single window in the laundry alcove.

"I'm going to run before the snow starts to pile up," she explained to her husband. "But I'll warm up some cinnamon rolls when I get back."

"Sure." He didn't bother looking away from his screen, so Brooke took advantage of her family being caught up in their electronic devices. She snapped on Shep's leash and took him on the same path as the day before, noting as she passed the stump where she'd buried the bracelet that it seemed undisturbed, snow beginning to cover the blackened wood and brambles.

On the beach she and Shep ran a short distance, then she circled back to the house and eyed the exterior of the upstairs bathroom bump out. Sure enough, there was a wire that ran up the side of the firebox and chimney, then tucked beneath the weathered shakes to the area where the shower was located. So far, it seemed, Gideon hadn't invested in wireless technology.

"You miserable son of a bitch," she muttered. "No more." She made her way back to the shed, located the old toolbox, rummaged through the interior, and finally located a rusted pair of wire cutters that she hoped would do the job. With only an old rhododendron as a screen she knelt down and cut the damned wire near the ground where it was buried. God knew where it led.

She didn't care. All she needed to do was dismantle the damned thing.

Mission accomplished.

Whistling to the dog, she grabbed two chunks of dry oak from the shed as her excuse just in case Neal or Marilee had been watching. Then she headed inside.

As it was, neither seemed to have even noticed she was gone.

Over the next few hours she had a light brunch of cinnamon rolls and fruit with her family, wrapped the few presents she'd brought from Seattle, laid them under the tree, and decided a bottle of wine would have to do for Leah. Though on her last visit her sister had claimed to be off wine, that had proved to be untrue, so the Merlot would have to do.

Once the presents were set she pretended to reorganize and clean the cupboards, all the while looking for any other spy equipment.

"Didn't the cleaning people do a good enough job?" Neal asked as he caught her ostensibly polishing the doorknobs and dusting the doorjambs and window casings as she searched.

"It's been years since this place has had a real top-to-bottom scrubbing," she explained. "Nana believed that cleanliness was next to godliness."

"Then she must've always been washing stuff," Neal observed because he understood how deeply religious the older woman had been. Even still, the cabin held more than its share of holy artifacts from the days when Mary Elizabeth Flannigan O'Hara had been the matriarch in charge. He hitched his chin toward the Celtic cross mounted over the archway near the front door.

"Amen," Brooke said and just kept working.

A few hours later she was satisfied that the house was swept of bugs or as clean as she could get it. She set out cheese, crackers, and cut vegetables with ranch dressing in lieu of lunch.

As promised Neal had set up the record player, and Marilee found a spot on the couch. Rather than view TikTok videos or text friends, she picked up her e-reader and settled in while Neal headed upstairs for a shower.

Just like old times, Brooke thought, pushing aside her anxiety for the moment. Humming to the likes of Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, and Mariah Carey, Brooke started the soup stock of tomatoes, spices, and clam juice. Soon the scents of garlic and basil and tomatoes filled the room. As George Michael sang about "Last Christmas," she sliced clams and vegetables and tossed them into the simmering base. As she slid the sourdough round to reheat in the oven, she thought about her conversation with Gina Duquette at the bakery.

"Marilee," she called from the kitchen, then shouted a little more loudly until Shep gave off a bark and her daughter looked up from her e-reader.

"What?"

"You talked to Leah. Right?"

"You know that."

"Did she ever mention coming here?" she asked, the old timer clicking loudly as it wound down. "You know, in the past couple of months or so?"

From the corner of her eye she saw Neal coming down the stairs. "Something smells good." He headed to the kitchen.

"Hope so," she said.

To her surprise he stepped behind her and pulled her tight against him, then kissed the top of her head, something he rarely did.

Marilee winced. "Ugh! Stop."

"Okay." Neal took a step back but patted Brooke on the rump and winked at her.

"Oh, Dad, no! I don't need to see that!" Marilee said, pulling a face as she shook her head and turned to her mother, "You think Aunt Leah was here? Like on the island?"

"No, I doubt it, but . . . well, I'm just asking."

Did the arms around her waist tense?

"Dunno." Marilee shrugged. "She never said anything to me about it." She turned back to her electronic book. "You can ask her when she gets here. Isn't she supposed to be here, like, any minute?"

Brooke checked the old Kit-Cat Klock positioned over the archway to the dining area, its bulbous eyes and tail clicking in tandem. Her nerves tightened at the thought of Leah's arrival. It shouldn't be such a big deal, but considering the terms on which they'd last seen each other, Brooke couldn't bury the concern that the holidays wouldn't go as planned. Everything could even be ruined.

But that was stupid. She should have more faith. For her part she would try, really try to get along with Leah.

"Why do you think Leah was here?" Neal asked, plucking a slice of cheese from the cutting board and plopping it into his mouth.

"Just something Gina Duquette—you know her, the woman who owns the bakery in town? Something she said."

"The owner of the bakery?"

"You've met her, right?" Brooke clarified. "She lives about five doors down, here on the island."

He was shaking his head. "Never met her, not that I remember."

"But you've been to the bakery." He had to have in all the years they'd been together, all the times they'd come to the island.

He shrugged.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It's just that she mentioned seeing a car here, and the cabin lit, and maybe Leah with her husband. Around Labor Day."

"Really?" he said, frowning. "I think she was already divorced by then."

Was that the tiniest of tics near his eye—the tell that he was nervous? But why? "Long divorced, as I understand it," Brooke said. But did she really know? She picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the chowder again. "Anyway, I don't think Gina's the most reliable source. She seemed a little confused."

"Maybe some car parked in the driveway and she just assumed it was Leah."

"Why Leah? Why not me?" she asked. "Here, taste this." She offered him the wooden spoon with some of the chowder.

"Who knows?" He blew across the spoon, then sipped. "Mm. Good."

"Doesn't need more salt?"

"Nope." But he seemed a bit distracted.

Before she could ask him what was on his mind, Brooke saw the wash of headlights flashing through the windows.

Shep let out a sharp bark and scrambled from his bed.

Brooke heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

"She's here!" Marilee yelled, hopping from the couch. Grinning widely, she raced barefoot to the door, Shep bounding beside her.

Brooke felt a pang of guilt for ever fighting with her sister, for letting her own personal issues with Leah become a barrier between them.

Well, no more. It was time to bury the hatchet and let bygones be bygones. They were family, after all. Quickly, she turned down the burner, letting the chowder simmer, then stepped into the living area just as the doorbell pealed through the house.

Marilee threw open the door.

Shep bounced in happy circles.

A blast of icy wind whooshed inside.

The fire glowed brighter as Leah stepped into the cabin. She was wrapped in a cream-colored coat, a red scarf draped around her neck, sleek gloves covering her fingers. Her blond hair gleamed, snowflakes melting in the gold strands. Her face was flushed and she was beaming. "Merry Christmas!" she cried, hugging Marilee as Brooke and Neal reached the entryway. "God, it's great to be here!" Leah was breathless, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling. "I brought a special present with me!"

At that moment Brooke's heart sank.

She'd seen this glow around her sister before.

No doubt about it; Leah was in love.

Again.

Leah glanced over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers, indicating someone should step inside.

"What is it?" Neal asked.

Brooke bit back a gasp.

Big as life, wearing a leather jacket and jeans and sporting three-days' growth of beard that didn't hide his sardonic grin, Gideon Ross stepped inside.