Secrets Between Them

“The toilet is leaking again,” Annie said, before noticing the new guest in their midst. “My, my, who is this handsome fellow?” Annie approached Nick with her head tilted back, so she could see out of the bottom half of her bifocals. “Are you a friend of Jennifer’s?”

“He’s our guest from New York,” Jennifer’s father explained. “Nick, this is my sister. She used to work as a midwife in Northern B.C. but now she lives with us.”

“A midwife. You must have many interesting stories.”

Annie beamed, then in a move more fitting of a southern belle than a northern midwife, took his arm. “I most certainly do. You must join us for afternoon tea.”

Jennifer was all but pushed to the side as her father and aunt claimed the new guest and led him inside.

So much for that romantic moment they’d been having.

Her chance for adventure was over before it had really started.

JENNIFER FOLLOWED THE TRIO inside, trying to see the humor in the situation. Wasn’t it just typical of her life that the first time in ages she met a man who made her heart beat faster, her aunt had to show up on the scene complaining of a broken toilet?

Still, it would have been nice if she could have had a few more moments alone with Nick Lancaster…

“Nice picture.” Nick paused to admire a painting Simone had given Jennifer for her thirtieth birthday. It was an Emily Carr, small, but original.

“Thanks,” Jennifer said. “There’s a story—”

“Tea, Jennifer?” her father reminded her. “We shouldn’t keep our guest waiting. I can show him to his room while you put out the spread. He has the suite over the garage, right?”

“Dad,” Jennifer said quietly. “The stairs?” He could only manage them with difficulty now and she knew it would be painful for him.

His face fell and she put a hand to his arm. “I’m sure Nick won’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

“Never mind the tea,” Annie said. “What about my toilet? Jennifer, didn’t you hear me tell you that it’s leaking?”

Had she fallen down a rabbit hole when she’d been out in the garden? Since Nick Lancaster’s arrival, it seemed her family had gone crazy. “I’ll phone someone to fix it,” she promised her aunt. “But I think it can wait until—”

“I could take a look at it,” Nick offered. “While you’re preparing the tea.”

“Thank you, but no. You’re a guest. Aunt Annie, could you please pour—”

“I don’t mind,” Nick insisted. Cleverly, he put his case to her aunt. “I assure you I’ve had some practice in the area of home repairs. My parents split when I was a teenager and my mother was not mechanically inclined. Fortunately, I had a grandfather who bought me a toolbox and taught me the basics.”

“Including leaking toilets?” Annie’s keen blue eyes were begging not to be disappointed.

“Including leaking toilets.”

“Oh, good,” Jennifer said, only just managing not to roll her eyes. “Maybe you can look at the squeaking hinge on the oven door next.”

Nick seemed surprised, but quickly nodded. “Sure, that wouldn’t be—”

“I was joking! You’re a paying guest. I don’t want you doing the chores around here.” She tried to transmit a reproachful message to Annie, but her aunt was still gazing adoringly at Nick. The old woman’s face actually broke into a beam when he took her arm and asked her to lead him to the problem.

Jennifer’s father grabbed his cane and followed.

I love my family, Jennifer reminded herself, as she made her way to the kitchen. It was the largest room in the house, and included an eating area where breakfasts were served every morning at eight.

Jennifer had scones for the tea, clotted cream from a nearby dairy and homemade peach-blue-berry-lavender preserves. She put on the kettle for tea, then set out her mother’s china.

She was slicing a lemon, when she heard someone enter from the hall. Not recognizing the uneven gait of her father, or her aunt’s characteristic shuffling, she figured it had to be Nick.

“Finished with the toilet already?”

“It needs a new seal. I’ll have to go to a hardware store for supplies. Your father is helping your aunt mop up the floor. He said to tell you they’ll be in shortly.”

Nick slipped behind the island that separated the kitchen from the seating area. Guests didn’t usually stray into her territory, and Jennifer felt her shoulders tighten with the awareness that he was watching her.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, hoping he would take the hint and sit down.

“No, thanks.”

Instead, he gravitated to the collage of photographs and postcards on the near side of the fridge. After studying them for about a minute he asked, “When were you in Europe?”

“Six years ago.” Jennifer couldn’t resist checking over the collection, too. After so many years, you’d think some of the pleasure would have worn thin. But no, just one glance at that photo of her and Simone at the Café Liberté, and she could feel the exciting buzz in her stomach that had stayed with her for the duration of that once-in-a-lifetime trip.

“You look like you were having a good time.”

“The best.” For three weeks she’d had no one to look after but herself. Simone had let her set the agenda, and they’d hopped a train for a different country on the smallest of whims.

“Who’s your traveling companion? You know, she looks a little like—”

“Simone DeRosier? Yes, that’s her. She used to spend her summers here on the island.” Mentioning her friend, Jennifer grew cautious. She was used to visitors being curious about Simone, and Jennifer had learned long ago to be discreet.

“Really. You knew Simone DeRosier?”

“We were friends, yes.”

“And what’s this?”

Nick pointed out another photograph, a group shot of the forget-me-not gang the summer before high school graduation.

“Just my friends.” Again, she felt a shot of nostalgic warmth. They’d had so much fun in those days. In many ways, those summers together had been the best days of her life.

“I recognize Simone. And this man next to her. I remember him from the papers. Isn’t he the guy that—”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, before he could put the rest of his thought into words.

“It’s kind of spooky to see them standing next to each other like that.”

When she’d found out the truth about Emerson, Jennifer had felt the same way. She’d put that photograph aside for a while. But after some time had passed, she’d realized that she didn’t want to wipe out her memories.

Yes, Emerson had turned out to be a monster. But once he’d been their friend. She wanted to remember the good things about him, not the bad.

The kettle began to whistle and Jennifer turned from the mementoes of her former life to pour the water into the pot. “This needs to steep for five minutes. If you’d like, I could show you your room now.”

Nick’s eyes were on her, and the magic she’d felt earlier began to build again. Attraction. Interest. Sexual awareness.

Then his gaze drifted back to the corkboard. “I’m in no hurry. I’d like to hear more about your trip. And your friends. Do you have more photographs?”

She laughed. Did she have more? There was a whole box full in the attic. “I was always the one lugging the camera around. But you need to get settled after your long trip. I’m sorry things were so chaotic on your arrival. My family can be a little much at times.”

Nick smiled at her and she was suddenly experiencing that breathless thing again. He had to stop looking at her this way. It was…unnerving.

“Your suitcase?” she asked, breaking the moment.

Nick’s smile turned rueful. “In the back of the Rover. I’ll go get it.”

She led him back to the entrance then waited while he retrieved his luggage—one very large suitcase and a briefcase that looked as though it contained a laptop computer.

“Up these stairs… Are you okay with that suitcase?”

“Sure. Michele did tell you I was planning to stay for a month?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes as she replied, “That won’t be a problem.”

At the landing she turned left, away from the other two doors. “We have guests staying in both these rooms but they’re out exploring for the day.”

“Where’s your room?”

People often asked her this, and yet the question felt intimate coming from Nick. Again, she felt too self-conscious to look at him as she answered, “We have three bedrooms on the main level. One’s an office, then my father and I each have a room.”

She opened the door to the suite, which had been added a few years ago. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s very private up here and you have your own bathroom.”

Nick stepped over the threshold, but instead of inspecting the solid wood furnishings or admiring the good-quality cotton bedding, he focused on her.

“Don’t apologize for your family. I like them. And I didn’t mind about the toilet. Really, I’m glad to help.”

He sounded sincere and kind. Considering his looks and his fantastic build, it seemed too good to be true.

There had to be a catch. He probably had a girlfriend—or several—waiting for him at home.

“Let me know if you need anything. And if you’d like some tea, you know where to find it.”

“I’ll be right down. But I do have one additional request.”

“Yes?”

“Would you show me around the island tomorrow?”

Was he serious? She caught her breath, then nodded. “Sure.”

She hoped she didn’t sound like this was a big deal, but to her it was. She had dated. She’d had boyfriends. One she’d almost married. But none of the guys from her past could measure up to this one. It seemed like her chance at adventure hadn’t been lost after all.

NICK HADN’T THOUGHT ABOUT the fact that Jennifer might have photographs. Pictures from Simone’s formative years on Summer Island would really complete the middle section of his book. Nick decided that priority number one would be getting her permission to use some of them. It shouldn’t be hard. She was clearly taken with him. And it wouldn’t be difficult for him to simulate an interest in her.

She was a pretty woman. Easy natured. Naturally kind. Once they’d had a chance to get to know one another, he’d let her know what he was writing about. The sort of person Jennifer was, she’d probably offer to help before he even needed to ask.

After a quick washup, Nick trooped back down for tea, as he’d promised. It didn’t take much to charm the aunt. All he had to do was listen to several of her midwife stories. He didn’t even need to fake his interest. The stories were actually fascinating.

Jennifer’s father was just as easy to connect with. Philip March was a history buff and he was impressed that Nick knew a bit about affairs north of the border.

“Dad owns every book Pierre Berton ever wrote,” Jennifer told Nick.

“I’ve read some of his myself,” Nick said. “My favorite was Flames Across the Border.”

Philip’s eyes gleamed as he leaned back and stretched out his legs. He looked like he was about to start a long-winded conversation, and apparently Jennifer thought so, too, because she patted Nick’s arm in a fortifying way, then crossed the room to pour more tea.

Nick’s eyes followed her as he listened to her father. She moved gracefully, light and fast on her feet like someone who squeezed a lot into a day. She’d been so reticent earlier, when he’d asked questions about Simone and the other forget-me-not friends. He wondered how long it would take to get her to relax around him.

To trust him.

As she lifted a dainty tea cup to her mouth, he felt a little stab of guilt. He had a feeling the woman was as innocent and naive as she appeared. Which must be why he suddenly felt like the big bad wolf.

Nick rehashed with Philip the political motivations behind the War of 1812—the only time in history that Canadians and Americans had taken up arms against each other.

Tea stretched out so long, it became dinner. Jennifer poured tea and refilled the jars of cream and jelly several times. Two sisters in their sixties, introduced to him as Ruth and Eileen Tisdale, returned exhausted and anxious for an early night after a day spent hiking in Arbutus Grove Provincial Park.

An hour later, a couple from Vancouver celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary, returned from their dinner at the Owl’s Nest. They were in their late forties, but they were so vibrant and fit they seemed much younger. They chatted only briefly, before disappearing up to their room.

Determined to get Jenn to himself for a bit, Nick kept talking until he’d exhausted even Philip March’s interest in history. When Annie announced it was her bedtime, Jennifer’s father reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair and said his good night, too.

At last Jennifer and Nick were alone.

The house was dark except for the dimmed light from over the table. The only sounds were the groans of old plumbing, the creaking of a house settling for the night.

Jennifer seemed a little uptight as she tapped her fingernails on the scarred wood table. He wondered what would relax her.

“Do you have any music?”

She looked relieved as she got up to turn on the stereo. “What do you like? Rock, country, classical, jazz? We have it all.”

“Do you have any of your friend’s CDs?” He cursed himself as her shoulders tightened. “But anything jazz would be good,” he amended.

She slipped on a disk from another Vancouver artist he recognized: Diana Krall.

“I picked up a case of wine after I crossed the border. How about we open a bottle?”

“That sounds nice.”

Encouraged, he ended up bringing in two bottles and once Jennifer had a glass in her hand, she finally seemed more at ease.

“I like this,” he said.

She must have thought he meant the music, because she replied, “Simone used to complain that this CD was too bland.”

Nick couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “I can see why she would say that. Simone’s music really stood out.”

Jennifer took another sip of her wine.

Nick hesitated. Decided to give it another try. “Forget Me Not, Old Friend, for instance. That was a real groundbreaker.”

The song had catapulted Simone to instant fame. Many critics still considered it the best piece of music she’d ever produced.

Of course one of the reasons the song was so unforgettable was because of the question it posed.

You see a comet cross the sky, you make a wish, it passes by; but will you remember me at the brilliant end?

Forget me not, my one true friend.

Who was the one true friend Simone had been singing about? After years of research, Nick was almost certain it had to be one of the gang from Summer Island.

But which one? Harrison, the ex-husband? Emerson, the man who had been so obsessed with Simone he’d been driven to murder? Gabe, the spurned lover? Aidan, the loyal friend of the husband?

Or Jennifer, Simone’s closest—and perhaps only—girlfriend?

Nick knew he couldn’t finish his book until he had the answer. But it didn’t seem he’d get any clues from Jennifer. At least not tonight. She still hadn’t replied to his comment about the forget-me-not song and he worried that he’d get her suspicious if he raised the subject again.

Be patient, Lancaster, he counseled himself. After all, he had a month to get what he needed.

CHAPTER THREE

JENNIFER OPENED HER EYES, certain that the announcer on her radio alarm had made a mistake. It couldn’t be quarter to eight. She never slept in.

Morning was the craziest time of Jennifer’s day. She usually prepared as much as she could the night before: setting the table, mixing the dough for muffins or scones, filling the coffeemaker with fresh grounds and water so all she’d need to do was press a button in the morning.

But last night she’d done none of that. She and Nick had talked until past midnight. Since she’d been too tired to deal with her usual late-night chores, she’d set the alarm a little earlier for the next morning.

But somehow she’d slept through it. Jennifer rubbed her eyes, then confirmed the time for herself. Damn. She only had fifteen minutes until she was supposed to serve breakfast to her five guests, plus her father and aunt.

She pulled herself out of her warm, lavender-scented sheets. Winced. Her head ached.

Then she remembered the wine she and Nick had shared last night.

When was the last time she’d had more than one or two glasses? She couldn’t remember.

She grabbed jeans and a fresh T-shirt, then slipped out to the bathroom. Sounds of someone cooking came from the kitchen. Miracle of miracles, her father must be up preparing the breakfast. She washed quickly, then hurried out to help him.

“Good morning, Jennifer.” Her father peered over his bifocals at her, then blinked as if he couldn’t quite focus this early in the morning.

He looked like a crotchety old man with his disheveled gray hair and whiskers bristling on his chin. His lean frame was lost in an oversize sweatshirt and pants that seemed as if they’d fall to the ground given one good tug. But he was definitely her hero this morning.

“Thanks, Dad.” She gave him a kiss, then checked the coffee machine. Good, he’d already switched it on. She pulled out place mats, then set the table. Her father tossed a spoonful of salt into a big bowl of batter. “What’s on the menu?”

“Pancakes with fresh blueberries. I picked ’em this morning.”

“That sounds great.” Jennifer pulled out the blender to make smoothies…one of the B and B specials. She grabbed bananas and strawberries from the freezer and blended them with vanilla yogurt and milk.

The first of the guests came into the kitchen just as she was pouring thick smoothies into tall glasses. Steve and Laura Waterton were looking forward to renting kayaks and heading for the Broken Islands.

As Jennifer answered their questions about the weather forecast, the Tisdale sisters came down.

“How did you sleep?” Jennifer asked as she poured them each a cup of coffee.

“The birds were dreadfully noisy,” Ruth said. “The racket started before dawn.”

“I thought the singing was lovely,” Eileen said. “We have so few songbirds in the city, anymore. Just robins and sparrows, really. The odd chickadee.”

Jennifer wasn’t surprised that they each felt differently about the morning birdsong. The sisters seemed to be direct opposites in everything from looks—Ruth was long and lean with angular features, while Eileen was short and plump and pretty—to temperament.

“I suppose I’ll have to sleep with the window closed tonight.” Ruth slid into the chair with the best view of the gardens.

Eileen, unperturbed by her sister’s grumbling, smiled and took the seat across from her sister.

The final guest appeared then. “Good morning, everyone.”

Nick’s entrance immediately brightened the mood of the room. Jennifer didn’t think she was the only one who felt it. Even Ruth managed a smile and a word of welcome.

He helped himself to coffee, then sat at the one remaining place setting. Jennifer passed around glasses of smoothie and when she reached him, he touched her arm.

“When are you free?” he asked.

She felt the blood shoot up to her face. “I need to clean the kitchen and wash a few loads of laundry.” The Waterton’s room had to be prepared for new guests. “Then I have my morning yoga class. I’m finished around eleven-thirty.”

Most afternoons she gardened. But today, she would make an exception.

“I saw the sign to the yoga studio on my drive from the ferry. Orange-and-blue colored building?”

“That’s the one.”

“How about I pick you up and we go on from there?”

“That would be fine.” Fine? Talk about an under-statement. She couldn’t remember when she’d looked forward to something as much as this. She’d had so much fun talking to him last night. Once they’d gone to their separate rooms, she’d stayed up for hours replaying their conversation. After his awkward question about the forget-me-not song—she always hated when that subject came up—they’d discussed travel. Nick had been to a lot of places. Not overseas, but he’d visited almost every state, as well as much of Mexico and Central America.

She’d drunk in every story, every detail.

“Pancakes are ready,” her father announced, bringing a laden platter to the table.

The pancakes were thinner than usual, with crispy edges. A little concerned, Jennifer went to the stove and sampled one of the pancakes still on the griddle.

She couldn’t tell what was wrong, but it didn’t taste right. She glanced back at the table and watched as Nick lifted a forkful of pancake to his mouth. He chewed, then stopped. A look of mild surprise crossed his face. He reached for his cup of coffee.

“These are different,” Steve Waterton said.

“They certainly are.” Ruth pinched her mouth and set down her fork.

“I did a little improvising today,” her father said proudly, clearly taking the comments as compliments. “Tossed in a few splashes of white wine. What do you think?”

Jennifer’s gaze shot to the spot on the counter where she’d left the bottles after her late night conversation with Nick. There’d been about a third of a bottle left when she went to bed, but now both bottles were empty.

At the table, everyone was silent for a moment. Nick scooped more pancake onto his fork. “Very Parisian,” he pronounced.

“They say you can add white wine to anything,” her father said.

Obviously he’d been watching too many cooking shows.

“That may be true, but I hope you didn’t add any to the coffee.” Ruth picked up her mug and sniffed the steaming liquid suspiciously.

Her father laughed and Jennifer forced herself to join in, though she strongly suspected Ruth had not meant her comment as a joke.

“Eat up,” her father said. “I’ve got plenty more in the kitchen.” He joined her by the griddle, picked up the spatula. “Why don’t you sit down at the counter and eat, too, Jennifer? I’ve got this covered.”

She’d been about to suggest she defrost some muffins she kept in the freezer for emergencies. But she could just imagine how her father’s face would fall if she did that. He was so pleased with himself, with his efforts to save her the trouble of preparing breakfast for once.

His intentions were good. But why, oh why, couldn’t he have followed the recipe that she, and her mother before her, had been using with great success for the past thirty years?

“Thanks, Dad. I’d love some pancakes.”

He carefully flipped three onto a plate and handed it to her. “You work too hard, Jennifer. I should handle breakfast for you more often.”

“…NINE AND TEN,” MOLLY Springfield finished counting, then curled her spine up from the yoga mat and rested her palms on her knees. “That’s it for this morning, everyone. Please take your time coming up from the floor.”

Molly moved to the back of the room where she gradually brightened the lighting and lowered the thermostat to normal room temperature. She toweled off her face and the back of her neck, then slipped a light, hooded jacket over her bright red sports bra.

A few of the participants were rising now. One of the first, as usual, was Jennifer. She had a lithe body and the postures came to her easily. But she tended to approach each session like a workout, rather than the spiritual refresher it was meant to be.

Observing Jennifer roll up her yoga mat quickly and efficiently, Molly reflected that if anyone needed the relaxing, calming effects of yoga, it was Jennifer. She was always rushing, always busy, too thin, too stressed. She ran the family business practically on her own and had to look after not only her elderly father, but now her aunt, as well.

Then there were her volunteer projects.

Jennifer never turned down anyone who asked for a favor. She was so kindhearted. Too kindhearted. A few times now Molly had tried to convince her that she took on too much, but she wouldn’t listen. Still, Jennifer was her best friend on the island and Molly did not intend to give up on her.