Kiss Me Hello (18 page)

“I can call the guy for you,” he said. “And we can get the measurements today.”

“Thanks. By the way,” Sara said. “Could you have your people be more careful how they store stuff in the barn? I was almost skewered by vine stakes a while ago.”

She wasn’t sure he believed her, but he promised to check it out.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She took the bottle of pinot out front.

The veranda was half the width of the house and at least twenty feet deep. A half wall ran along the border made of round stones of different shades of white, brown, pink, and blue-gray. Nasturtiums spilled out of pots on the floor spaced out along the wall, sprays of red, orange, yellow, and pink. Alternating ferns and fuchsias hung from an exposed beam above the half wall.

The plants all looked much better than they should. Sara stuck her finger in one of the pots, expecting them to be dried out, but the soil was moist. They were on a drip system.

The front of the house faced southeast. The veranda’s wide stairs led down to an expansive lawn. Sitting on the wall, Sara could see the driveway along lawn’s right perimeter, all the way out to Turtledove Hill Road. This was a perfect setting for a society wedding you’d read about in a glossy magazine.

It was all so lovely here. Everything was lovely. Her house was lovely. Her husband was lovely. Her bank account was lovely. This wine was lovely. Her life was lovely.

Without warning, her shoulders shook and tears spilled out of her eyes. She took a big gulp of wine and let it sit in her mouth, lightly burning her tongue before she swallowed. How did she get from there to here? From then to now?

She imagined a timeline of her life from the day she first saw the boy in the truck to half an hour ago when Rafe Corazon knocked on the door. The timeline was made of red yarn, connected by pushpins from one pillar on the veranda to another. Little stick-figure Saras dangled along the yarn, desperate not to fall.

They were all trying to do the right thing. Marry the father of her doomed child. Write a good enough thesis. Pray well enough so her mother wouldn’t die. Help Joss Montague find a peaceful resting place. Reconnect with her husband. But none of it was right. None of it belonged on the timeline. And no one would tell her what did.

“I’d hold you if I could,” Joss said. He was beside her on the wall, leaning against a stone pillar, a knee bent with an arm resting on it, the other leg stretched out straight. “I tried to give you some privacy, but the pull was too intense.”

“Joss.” She felt miserable, but she was glad to see him.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Someone’s feeling sorry for herself.”

“I have no right,” she said. “No right to feel sorry for myself.”

“So true,” Joss said. His gentle voice had an element of tough love. He wasn’t humoring her. “You’re married to your high school sweetheart. You’ve inherited the house of your dreams. Your children will never want for anything.”

“If I ever ha-ha-have an-n-ny children!” The crying thing lurched into a jag and went viral through her body. “I’ve only ha-ha-had sex once in the last six months, and my husband wasn’t even th-th-there!”

“Maybe that’s why,” Joss said.

“Why what?”

“Why you feel so lonely to me.”

The words were like a knife plunged into her heart. “Is this you trying to help?”

Before Joss could answer, a man’s blood-curdling scream ripped through the air.

“What the hell?”

Sara raced into the house. The men from Poole Haven were already headed through the kitchen door and down the back stairs. She jumped over their tools and followed them—and the screams—out to the barn.

Rafe was on the ground, flailing about like a gasping fish out of water. A steel vine stake ran through his shoulder and pinned him to the dirt. Nonstop Spanish, surely loaded with choice curse words, streamed out of his mouth.

Sara looked up at the rafters. All the vine stakes had fallen. “Oh, god,” she screamed. “Call 911!”

- 20 -
Corazon

“S
IX IRISES, THREE RED TULIPS
, and three white ones. Six of those pink roses.” Bonnie always went into the walk-in with the florist to select stems and oversee the construction of bouquets. “Six daffodils and three yellow roses.”

“Baby’s breath?” the florist said.

“Never,” Bonnie said. “No baby’s breath.”

All florists had an unhealthy attachment to baby’s breath, the quickest path to mediocrity.

“This vase. Some of that fern is good. Not that much. No ribbon. Four peonies and four delphiniums—the dark blue, not the light. Excellent.”

She found out about the accident this morning during one of Gracien’s harangues about Turtledove Hill. Rafe didn’t deserve such a fabulous bouquet after getting himself nearly killed, but what could Bonnie say? Everything she did was art.

She set the arrangement in the passenger seat and secured it with the seatbelt and her purse. As the top was going up, Bram pulled in beside her and got out of his truck.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” He eyed the flowers beside her.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she said. “And don’t pretend you don’t know who they’re for. The guy your house almost killed.”

“The guy Gracien’s barn almost killed, you mean. Yeah, I know about it. My wife was at the hospital last night until he came out of surgery.”

Two things about that sentence grated on her nerves. First, the way Bram said
my wife,
possessively, and with a sense of enduring relationship. She eyed him more closely. Was he just playing with her?

Second, the fact that Sara was at the hospital last night until Rafe came out of surgery. By what right? The Lyndons moved in on everything that should be hers. Her mother, her wedding spa, her friendship with Peekie, and now Rafe.

Not that she wanted Rafe, that puffed-up egomaniac. But he was a Chaser, and Sara Lyndon wasn’t. She had no business being worried about him.

“Anyway,” Bram said. “From what I know, Poole Haven Wines is responsible for the accident.” His gaze traveled down to her mouth and lingered there. “And I
am
jealous of any other man who benefits from your attention.”

“Good.” She gave him an air kiss and put the car in reverse. “I’ll be in town later. You can have my full attention then.” She started to back out when something caught her eye. “What’s that?” She stepped on the brake.

“Isn’t it cool?” Bram held his hand out flat, displaying a small knife. “It was in the barn. I thought you might know what it is, since you’re so up on local history.”

“It’s a spike knife.” She picked it up. “Made from a spike from a tie in the train tracks. Hard to say where it came from though.”

“That’s what I told Sara.” He took it from her and tossed it in the air, catching it by the handle. “It’s the murder weapon in my latest book.”

“Speaking of which, you’d better get to your work, and I’d better get to mine,” she said. “See you.”

“You know where I’ll be. Click, click, clicking at the keyboard.”

As she backed out of the parking space, he looked at her with puppy dog eyes, and her reaction unsettled her. She didn’t like it.

It took longer than usual to get up to Fort Bragg. She had to take every curve slowly to keep water from spilling out of the vase. At the hospital, Rafe’s room was full of flowers and Mylar balloons. And visitors. Gracien and Chief Ken—and Sara Lyndon.

“Hi, Chief Ken,” Bonnie said. “Hello, everybody.”

They all murmured approval of her bouquet, which
was
pretty fabulous.

“Bonnie, you shouldn’t have.” Rafe said.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have, you big lunk.” He looked kind of cute propped up against pillows in his hospital gown. A massive dressing covered his shoulder. “But I guess we’re all glad that pole didn’t catch you in the head.”

“That’s the most gorgeous arrangement I’ve ever seen,” Sara said.

If she wasn’t a Lyndon, it would be hard to hate her.

Bonnie put the flowers down in Rafe’s line of sight. While she adjusted the stems to best advantage, she caught him admiring her work.
Everything you do is art,
she told herself again. If people could just keep things neat and tidy and beautiful, the world would be so much less crabby.

In fact, Rafe wouldn’t be sitting in that hospital bed with a hole in his shoulder and his arm in a sling if his guys had followed the neat and tidy part of her credo.

“So how long are you in for?” she said.

“Dr. Kasaty says I’ll be out by tomorrow,” Rafe said.

“So you’ll be able to come to the reception on Friday,” Sara said. She had the best seat, right beside Rafe.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

“And you’re sure your crew didn’t leave the stakes in the rafters?” Sara said. “I was about to give Gracien an earful on safety. I guess I’ll save my lecture.”

“Trust me,” Gracien said. “Rafael’s given his crew two earfuls.”

Gracien always called Rafe by his real name. Personally, Bonnie thought Rafael was a beautiful name. When she was a girl, she loved it that he was named for an angel. But Rafe suited him better. It was so close to rake.

Not that she thought about him that much anymore.

“They say not, and I believe them,” Rafe said. “We never use the rafters for storage. Too hard to get up there.”

The
Doctor Who
theme song started playing on Chief Ken’s cell phone. “Chief of Police….Yes, sweetie. I know it’s you.”

Now
that
was art. He used the
Doctor Who
song on his cell phone to announce calls from his wife, Dr. Kasaty. Bonnie approved.

“How about The Coffee Spot?” he went on. “I’m with him now….Yes, at the hospital….Oh. Well. See you in an hour.” He hung up with a red face. “That was my wife. I’ve been severely chastised for using my cell in the hospital.”

“Be glad you have someone who severely chastises you.” Rafe looked at Bonnie. “It shows she cares.”

The egomaniac.

“I’m still going to have to take statements,” said the chief.

So that’s why he was here.

“Statements plural?” Bonnie said. “Who from besides Rafe?”

“Mrs. Blakemore was the first victim,” Chief Ken said. “I’ll need her statement too.”

Really? Sara didn’t look hurt.

“Not victim,” Sara said. “More of a witness.”

“Victim,” Bonnie said. God, she was insinuating herself into everything. Where would it end? “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” the chief said. “Now if everyone can leave the room, I can take Rafe’s statement and be on time for lunch with my wife.”

“The chief’s right,” Rafe said. “We wouldn’t want him to be severely chastised. Again.”

Gracien walked out with Sara. By the look on his face, Bonnie would bet he was going to push on the sale again. She wished she knew what was up. He was usually relaxed about business. She didn’t like not knowing all the details in a deal. It made it hard to bargain. Worse, she hated it that Gracien was keeping her in the dark. If he didn’t trust her, how could she trust him?

“Bonnie,” Rafe said when she was at the door. She turned back, bracing herself for another sarcastic remark. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”

“No problem, Rafe.”

She hated it when Rafe was full of himself. She hated it more when he was sincere.

- 21 -
Memorial

“O
OH-HOO!” PEEKIE WAVED FROM
Bonnie’s car as the convertible rolled into the courtyard. “There’s nowhere to park!”

“Pull over on the grass for a second.” Sara came down the back porch steps “The caterer’s assistant is leaving to get more ice.”

Every inch of space was taken from the barn to the end of the driveway, and the side of Turtledove Hill Road was lined with cars and pickup trucks all the way to Highway 1. Aunt Amelia’s quiet little reception was beginning to look like the event of the year.

Bonnie was dressed in a figure-enhancing black sheath, fingerless black lace gloves, and a black pillbox hat with a starched lace veil that popped out and came down just to her eyebrows. A necklace and earrings of gray freshwater pearls completed the picture. No wonder Bram was so taken with her. Sara thought she was amazing, too.