Land's End

He valued privacy himself too highly to argue. “No, I guess not.” He said it quietly, because the only other choice was to shout, and shouting just drove Melissa deeper into the shell she’d constructed around herself, like a conch hiding in its beautiful labyrinth. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He closed the door and stood for a moment, hand resting on its panel as lightly as if he touched his daughter. He’d like to believe this was normal behavior for a twelve-year-old, but he couldn’t. How much damage had they done, he and Lynette, to the child they’d created? How much more waited for her?

He straightened, hand dropping from the door. Sarah Wainwright might not intend harm to Melissa, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cause it. And that was something he intended to prevent. No matter what he had to do.

Sarah lay across the bed, staring at the shadows cast by the lazy revolving of the ceiling fan. Images flickered in the shadows. Miles’s face, glowing with excitement when he told her about the offer to become second in command of Donner’s conglomerate of software and engineering companies.

“I owe it all to you, Sarah. If you hadn’t pushed me to blow the whistle on the scam in the Atlanta office, Donner would never even have remembered my name.”

She’d been surprised that she’d had to push. Even if the rot at Donner Enterprises had gone all the way to Donner himself, exposing it had been the right thing to do.

Miles had seen that, once she pointed it out. Donner hadn’t been involved, and his appreciation of Miles’s integrity had taken a tangible form.

Brilliant, creative, iconoclastic…Every word applied to Trent Donner was a superlative. Trent had risen from poverty to parlay a shoestring operation into a multimillion-dollar empire. Miles’s appointment as his assistant had been a plum, but it had meant a move to the isolated, moneyed environs of St. James. Trent preferred to run his empire from the island, flying—as need took him—to Atlanta or Singapore. His assistant had to be on call twenty-four hours a day.

Of course she’d been happy for Miles, but moving meant leaving behind her position at the pediatric clinic in Atlanta. Where was she going to practice medicine on St. James?

That had worked out, after a fashion. She’d found an emergency room position at a hospital in Savannah, the closest city. It was only part-time, but before she had time to grow restless, she’d discovered another opportunity, right on St. James. The island had been without a clinic of its own.

The wealthy, in their private compounds, didn’t need one, but the several hundred native sea islanders, clinging to their Gullah culture while coping with the influx of outsiders, did. She’d never been able to see a problem without feeling it her duty to solve it.

Trent had been the obvious choice to put money behind her idea. She’d begun to enjoy her clashes with him on the subject, and he’d finally donated the building so they could start the clinic. And then after six short months, their world exploded.

Trent’s embittered face formed against the shadows. Did the pain show as clearly on her face as it did on his? A man who hated to show his feelings, he must despise every line, resent it every time he looked into a mirror.

Unbidden, another image of Trent’s face sprang into her mind. His eyes glowing with laughter, then surprised by attraction, silhouetted against the dark green shadows of a garden. They’d sensed the feeling at the same moment, recognized it in each other. And turned away, as guilty as if they’d acted on the impulse.

No. Sarah slammed the door of her mind on that memory. She had to concentrate on the mission that had brought her here.

The truth about Miles and Lynette is buried on St. James, Father. You’ve brought me back, and I won’t leave until I find it.

TWO

Sarah paused in the entrance to the inn’s dining room. After a quick, quiet meal, she’d tumble into bed. Tomorrow she’d figure out what her first step had to be, now that Trent had made it clear she could expect nothing from him. Thank goodness the dining room, like the lobby earlier, was nearly deserted.

Not quite. She saw the couple at the table by the window, heart sinking. What perverse luck had led her into a meeting with Trent’s closest neighbors? It was too late to retreat. Jonathan Lee was already on his feet and coming toward her.

“Sarah Wainwright! We didn’t know you were back on the island. It’s good to see you, honey.” Jonathan took her hands and kissed her cheek.

Was it good to see her? She had no idea where the Lees stood in relation to respecting Trent’s wishes that she leave.

“I just arrived. It’s good to see you, too. And Adriana.” She smiled at Jonathan’s wife, who hadn’t left her chair.

Jonathan drew back and studied her, his round, merry face, like a sophisticated faun’s, growing solemn. “It doesn’t look as if being back agrees with you.”

Sarah shrugged, not sure how much his perceptive, sometimes malicious, black eyes picked up. “Mixed feelings, I suppose. Please greet Adriana for me.”

She tried to disengage herself, but Jonathan had a firm grip on her hand. “Tell her yourself. Have dinner with us.”

If she tried to make polite conversation, she’d probably fall asleep in her dinner plate. “Another time.”

Jonathan shook his head. “You can’t eat alone your first night back. Besides, Adriana’s dying to talk with you.”

Sarah was swept to their table on the tide of that Southern charm Jonathan dispensed with such enthusiasm. He played the role of Southern gentleman with so much flair, one could never quite tell if it was real or exaggerated.

The waiter produced another chair, and she ordered the first special he mentioned, trying to organize her thoughts. This meeting had fallen into her lap. If anyone knew what had gone on with Trent after she’d left the island, the Lees did. She’d better shake off her fatigue and use this opportunity.

She glanced up to find herself the target of two pairs of eyes, Jonathan’s brightly curious, Adriana’s bored. At least she supposed it was boredom. Adriana was always perfectly made-up, her dark hair swept back from her strong-featured face, her clothing a perfect example of retrained elegance.

Jonathan leaned toward her, pixie face warm. He must be a good ten years older than Trent, but he had a perennially youthful air. His interest in everything about everyone balanced Adriana’s coolness.

“Has it been a bad year?” He grimaced. “Of course it has. Scratch that question, sugar. Tell us what you’ve been doing.”

An account of her recent life shouldn’t have lasted through the serving of the she-crab soup, but Jonathan managed to spin it out through the main course with questions and comments.

Sarah was still wondering how she could tactfully introduce the subject she wanted when the talk turned to island society, and Jonathan said Lynette’s name at last.

“Everyone misses Lynette.” Adriana’s spoon chinked against the china cup. Candlelight cast shadows across her face. “I’m not sure I even want to have our party this year.”

“Of course we will.” Was that an edge in Jonathan’s voice? His black eyes bored into his wife, and Sarah had a sense of meaning under the words. “Our party always kicks off the summer. Everyone will be disappointed if we cancel.”

“Not everyone.” Adriana toyed with her spoon. “Trent’s turned into such a recluse, he probably won’t come anyway.”

“A recluse?” Adriana’s comment seemed to bring Trent’s frowning presence to the table.

Jonathan’s eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t call it that. After what happened, naturally he didn’t go out much.”

“I hear he’s neglecting the business.” Adriana’s brows lifted. “Escaping on his boat and letting his brother run things.”

“I’m sure Derek’s not taking on anything important,” Jonathan said. “He’s not a heavyweight at business.”

Adriana shrugged, dismissing Trent’s brother. “The way Trent’s acting, anyone would think he and Lynette had been devoted to each other, instead of fighting all the time.”

“I hadn’t realized they were having problems.” She’d seldom seen Trent and Lynette, but she’d been busy with her work. Or maybe she hadn’t cared enough.

“I don’t suppose you knew Lynette well.” Adriana’s tone implied that Lynette would hardly have chosen her for a friend.

“No, I didn’t. But obviously people think my husband did.” Sarah put the blunt statement out and waited for a response.

Jonathan shook his head, looking shocked at her frankness. “I’m sure no one believes—”

“Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.” Adriana sounded scornful. “That’s what everyone thinks. What other explanation is there?”

Adriana didn’t care whether she hurt your feelings, but she was privy to gossip that Sarah would never hear. Gossip that she now needed to hear if she wanted to uncover the truth.

“Did people suspect they were involved before the accident, or just afterward?” She ignored the pain.

“Well, I heard—”

Jonathan’s hand closed over his wife’s. “Please, Adriana. Let’s not repeat gossip. It can only be hurtful.”

“I’d rather hear it than wonder what people are saying behind my back.”

He shook his head, and under the sympathy in his face she saw determination. Jonathan didn’t want her to hear the talk. Was his concern based on his ideas of what constituted polite conversation, or was there really something out there he thought too painful for her to hear?

“Both you and Trent lost a great deal.” He patted her hand sympathetically. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

She didn’t agree, but she subsided. She’d probably pushed as much as she could for the moment.

At least she’d learned something. Jonathan wouldn’t talk, but Adriana would. She had to find a way of seeing her alone.

She slid her chair back. “Please excuse me. I’m afraid I’m exhausted from the trip. Maybe we can get together again soon.” She stood, looking at Adriana as she said the words, and thought she saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

“Oh, honey, of course.” Jonathan got up. “Don’t you forget now, we’re here if you need anything.”

Anything but the truth. Well, she could get around that. Trent might think he could stop her, but people would talk. No matter how painful, that was better than silence.

She walked into the lobby feeling more hopeful than she had an hour earlier. But it didn’t last. The lobby now held something that hadn’t been there before—her luggage stood forlornly against the desk.

The manager wore an expression of mixed embarrassment and determination. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wainwright. I’m afraid we have to ask you to vacate your room.”

Sarah stared at him, her mind as blank as she knew her face must be. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He shuffled a sheaf of computer printouts on the desktop. “This is very embarrassing.” He looked everywhere but at her. “The entire inn is booked for a business meeting.”

Cold rage stiffened her spine. “Let me guess. This business meeting…It wouldn’t be Donner Enterprises, would it?”

“There’ll be no charge for the room, of course, or for your dinner.” He attempted a smile, fastening his gaze somewhere over her head. “Maybe you’ll come back another time.”

“And if I did? Would you find the inn full again?”

For a moment his eyes met hers and he was a human being, instead of Trent Donner’s tool. “I’m sorry.” He spread his hands out helplessly. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Sarah?”

She turned, realizing that Jonathan and Adriana had come out of the dining room. Jonathan stared at her bags.

“You’re not leaving already, are you? You just got here.”

“Not willingly. The manager has suddenly discovered that all the rooms have been booked by Trent’s company. In other words, Trent is having me evicted.”

She probably shouldn’t be so blunt. They were Trent’s friends. She couldn’t expect them to side with her.

Jonathan turned on the manager. “Dunphries, you can’t ask Dr. Wainwright to leave at this hour of the night.”

The man reddened. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You mean you’re afraid to make one.” Jonathan’s black eyes snapped. “Donner provides a lot of your business.”

“It’s not his fault.” She remembered Trent’s stinging accusation. “I was naive not to expect it. I’ll go elsewhere.”

The manager cleared his throat. “I understand Mr. Donner booked all the rooms on the island for this business meeting.”

She’d underestimated Trent. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “It looks as if I’ll be sleeping on the beach tonight.”

“Don’t be silly.” Adriana’s entry into the conversation startled Sarah. “You can stay in our guesthouse.”

Sarah could only hope her mouth didn’t gape. Adriana had barely spoken two sentences to her in the time she’d been on the island. Why on earth was she extending an invitation now?

Jonathan smiled. “Of course. That’s the perfect solution.” He reached for Sarah’s bags. “Come on. You’re coming home with us.”

“Trent won’t be very happy with you.”

“It won’t hurt Trent not to get his own way for once.” Jonathan picked up her bags. “Our car’s out in the lot.”

She’d better stop protesting, or they might change their minds. “I have my car, so I’ll follow you.”

The manager sprang to open the lobby door for them, probably with a sigh of relief. She’d blame him, but she knew the power Trent wielded here. He was the one who deserved her anger, not people who depended on him for their livelihoods.

Adriana fell into step with Sarah. “Don’t worry about our relationship with Trent.” Her voice was cool and light, almost amused. “Your staying with us won’t make it any worse.”

That seemed fairly ambiguous. What was Adriana thinking? “It’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” That definitely was amusement in her tone. “Your presence might make life more…interesting.”

Interesting.

She weighed Adriana’s words later as she followed their car down the black, winding road. Streetlights were nonexistent on the island, and street signs rare. You either knew where you were going at night, or you got lost, just as she felt lost in the tangle of ambiguities and hidden meanings in nearly everything that had been said tonight.

What was Adriana up to? She hadn’t invited Sarah to stay based on her ideas of Southern hospitality. Still, staying with them should open some doors to her. Whatever Adriana’s motives, she had to be grateful for that.

He ought to feel pleased. The problem presented by Sarah Wainwright had been taken care of.

Trent leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking over the computer to the wide windows. A silvery moon rode low on the ocean, sending a path of light toward the shore.

He didn’t feel anything of the kind. He couldn’t rejoice that Sarah was ending an exhausting day by driving off the island to the nearest motel. She’d have to go all the way to the interstate to find one that wasn’t inexplicably full.

No, he wasn’t pleased, but he was satisfied. He’d done what he had to do. Some would say he’d been ruthless, but that was because he did what other people only thought about. Sarah Wainwright would not open up the busy lines of gossip again.

In the long run, he’d done her a favor. She’d have found more grief if she’d stayed here.

Faint music filtered through the study door he’d left ajar. Derek must be playing the piano in the living room, since Melissa had already gone up to her room. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not that Derek was at his suite of rooms here instead of at his waterfront apartment in Savannah.

Trent’s first instinct, after Lynette’s death, had been to have that grand piano of hers chopped into firewood. He hadn’t, of course. Melissa had her mother’s talent, and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of that solace.

Besides, he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might detract from the explanation he’d given for Lynette’s and Miles’s presence at the cottage together. He’d asked them to check out the cottage for possible expansion. That was what he’d told the police, the press, anyone else who dared ask. The police were satisfied that it was an unfortunate accident with the gas heater and only too glad to have a rational explanation for their presence. End of story.

Maybe people didn’t really believe that story, but they pretended they did. No one would dare suggest anything else in his hearing, or in Melissa’s. Or would they? He’d like to believe he’d protected his child from the speculation, but he’d never be sure.

He tilted his head back against cool leather, letting the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He’d done what he had to, all along the line. And if he spent sleepless nights raging at God over this betrayal—well, that was no one’s business but his.

Sarah thought there was another answer, but she was wrong. He’d accepted that, and she’d be better off if she did, too. Her face formed in his mind—the clear green eyes that weighed and assessed everything, the determined set to her mouth, that stubborn chin. Sarah wouldn’t give up easily.

That conviction ruffled his thoughts. He’d gotten her off the island. Word would get around that it wasn’t wise to talk with her, even if she came back. She hadn’t been here long enough to make many friends who’d help her—only the people she’d recruited to help at the fledgling clinic.

Derek had been as close to her as anyone. Maybe Trent had best close that gap.

He shoved back the chair and went down the flight of stairs from the loft to the living room. His half brother played with his eyes shut, lost in the music. With his features relaxed, he had a strong resemblance to their mother—the same curly brown hair and full lips. Music had been a bond between him and Lynette, one Trent had never shared.

“Derek.” He leaned against the piano. It was a piece of furniture, nothing else. He could stand here without remembering the hours Lynette had spent playing it.

Derek played a final chord and then glanced at him, eyes curious. “What’s up?”

“Did you hear that Sarah Wainwright was on the island?”

Derek whistled softly. “No. Why would she come back?”

“She has some crazy idea that Miles and Lynette couldn’t have been involved.” He hated the words. They tasted of betrayal. “She wanted my help to prove it.”

Derek played a random chord or two. “You told her no.”

“Of course I told her no.” Irritation edged his voice. He shouldn’t have to explain that to Derek. “What did you think? That I’d welcome her and jump right into an investigation?”

“Guess not, when you put it that way. Still, you’ve got to feel sorry for the woman. She must be hurting.”

“Poking into the past isn’t going to heal that hurt.” He ought to know. “I’m doing her a favor by shutting her down before she starts.”

“She probably doesn’t see it that way.”

“Maybe not, but she doesn’t have a choice.”

“From what I remember about Sarah, I’d say she isn’t one to take no for an answer. Where is she staying?”

“Gone.” He clipped the word. “She was at the inn.”

Derek filled in the rest. “You sent her packing.”

“Yes.” She’d be gone by now. He ignored the faint trace of regret at the thought.

“Well, I guess that’s taken care of, then.” Derek lifted his brows, his brown eyes questioning. “Isn’t it?”

“You knew her as well as anyone. She might contact you.”

“And you want me to do what?”

“That should be obvious.” He suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Close her down.”

“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” Derek’s long-fingered hands moved on the keys, picking out something harsh and dissonant.

“You can pretty it up any way you want.” His voice was equally harsh. “Just don’t tell her anything to encourage her.”

“You’re the boss.”

He frowned at Derek’s flippant tone. But Derek, no matter how he felt, would cooperate.

A step sounded on the tile floor, and he turned to see Farrell, the driver-cum-body-guard, standing just inside the door, his heavy face impassive.

“Well?” He’d left the man at the inn to confirm that Sarah went on her way.

“Thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” The only thing he wanted to hear was that Sarah had left the island.

“Doc Wainwright. She left the inn, but she didn’t head for the mainland. She moved into the guesthouse at the Lees’.”

Derek played something ominous and threatening, like a storm coming up at sea.

“Stop it,” Trent snapped at him.

Derek lifted his hands from the keys. “It sounds as if Sarah didn’t do what you expected. How enterprising of her.”

“She will.” His jaw tightened, and he turned toward Farrell. “That’s all. You can go.”

She would. No matter how enterprising she was, Sarah wouldn’t find any answers here. He’d see to that.

Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as she turned into the drive at the Lees’ seaside villa. “Tara with hot tubs,” some local wag had called it. Jonathan stopped in front of the pillared portico, she stopped behind and he then came and slid into the front seat of her car.

He pointed. “Just go round the end of the house.”

Oleander branches, thick with blossoms, brushed the car as Sarah pulled up to the guesthouse. The architect had given up on antebellum design here—the cottage was a typical Low Country beach house. Its wide windows had shutters that could be closed against a storm. Between it and the main house, a turquoise swimming pool glowed with underwater lights.

Jonathan heaved her bags from the car. “You feel free to use the pool anytime you want. That’s what it’s there for.”

Sarah followed as he unlocked the front door and switched on lights.

“I’ll just put these in the master bedroom. You make yourself at home. You ought to find everything ready.”

Sarah dropped her shoulder bag on a glass-topped coffee table. Pale cream walls, pale beige Berber carpeting, glass everywhere. The bright cushions on the white wicker furniture were the only splash of color, other than the seascapes on the walls. A living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, two baths…This little retreat for extra guests was more than comfortable.

Sarah glanced out toward the pool, remembering how it had looked a year ago at Adriana’s party. Twinkling white lights had festooned the trees. Everywhere there had been flowers, music, laughter, the clink of china. All of island society had been there. The heavy scent of magnolias in an isolated corner of the garden filled her mind.

No. She wasn’t going to remember.

Jonathan came back, handing her the key. “Come up to breakfast anytime you like.” His black eyes warmed with sympathy. “Honey, you look plain exhausted. Tomorrow we’ll talk about your problem with Trent. Okay?”

Sarah nodded, her throat tightening at his kindness. “I’ll do that. Jonathan, I can’t thank you enough…”

“Don’t.” Something she couldn’t read moved in his eyes. “I’m not sure we’re doing you a favor.” He kissed her cheek lightly. “Good night.”

Jonathan’s advice was good, but Sarah wasn’t sure how to follow it. Once ready for bed, she couldn’t settle. She turned down the peach spread on the king-size bed, fluffed the pillows, switched on the bedside lamp. Still she felt restless, uneasy, physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to rest.

Finally she wandered into the kitchen, switching on the light. The tea canister was stocked with herbals, so she filled a mug and popped it in the microwave.

A dose of chamomile tea, to be taken at bedtime. Her grandmother used to recite the line from Peter Rabbit whenever Sarah, visiting her at the big house on Beacon Hill, struggled to get to sleep.

Something rattled over the soft hum of the microwave. Sarah paused, spoon in hand. What was it? Something inside the cottage, or out? She listened.

Somewhere an owl called. Beyond the owl she could just make out the muffled murmur of the surf. The main house was between her and the ocean, but that must be what she’d heard.