The Chesapeake Diaries Series (211 page)

He turned his wrist to look at his watch. It was later than he realized and he had an early day tomorrow.
He went back into the house and locked the door, the thought heavy on his mind that if things had worked out the way he’d wanted them to, he wouldn’t be home alone at this hour. He’d hoped to spend some time with Ellie this evening, but she and Carly had opted to leave the Grange right after dessert was served. But even if they’d stayed, well, three’s a crowd.

There was no way to deny that he was becoming more and more attracted to Ellie. He liked everything about her—the way she looked, the way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way she’d felt when he’d carried her in his arms. But he still couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was about her that bothered him. Something about her just didn’t add up.

So which was stronger, he wondered: his attraction or his curiosity?

His laptop was on the kitchen table, and he pulled up Magellan Express, his search engine of choice, and typed in
Ellie Ryder
. When nothing relevant came up, he entered first
Ellen
then
Eleanor Ryder
—assuming that Ellie was short for something else—and hit search, but the links to the women that appeared were clearly not Ellie.

Curious.

He deleted Ellie’s name and typed in
Carly Summit
.

He studied the screen that appeared for a moment, then whistled. Carly Summit, age thirty-two, was the only child of Patrick Summit of Summit Industries, and was the sole owner and CEO of the very upscale Summit Galleries International.

Cam snorted. “That’s some little art gallery you
manage
.” According to the magazine article he skimmed, Carly owned the New York gallery outright, along
with smaller galleries in Boston, London, and Istanbul.

So how did Ellie—who is so broke she has to do all the painting in her house herself because she can’t afford to hire someone to do the work—become best friends with someone who was obviously among the superwealthy? It occurred to him that perhaps Ellie wasn’t as bad off financially as she pretended. For one thing, there was the matter of that Benz.…

But why pretend? Why insist on doing all the work on the house herself—the type of work she’s obviously never done before? Grunt work. Nothing fun about pulling up floors and scraping layers of wallpaper.

Yeah. Something’s wrong with this picture
.

He cleared the screen and typed in
Rushton-Graves
.

The link for the school’s website pulled up immediately. Cam clicked on it and waited for the site to load.

“Wow,” he muttered when the home page pulled up.

The campus of the Rushton-Graves School in Massachusetts’s Berkshire Mountains took up most of the town of Endicott, a small village that appeared to exist solely to support the school. Rushton-Graves’s buildings were of brick construction in the Federal style, the lawns spacious and meticulously clipped, the student body neat and shiny and ridiculously preppy in their appearance, and the tuition, room, and board astronomically high.

How could Ellie Ryder afford to attend such a place?

He scanned idly through the website, only half paying
attention to the photos, until he came to a page that posted pictures from an alumni field hockey game from ten years ago. There in living color, smiling, her arms around her teammates on either side, stood Carly Summit. On her left was a dark-haired girl identified as Megan Granville. On her right, a platinum blonde: Ellis Chapman.

The hair was different—blond instead of chestnut brown, long past her shoulders instead of the shorter style she now wore, but the smile was unmistakable.
Ellis Ryder Chapman
, the caption read.

It was Ellie, all right.

Cam stared at the picture for a long moment, then returned to the search engine and typed in
Ellis Chapman
. This time, the results went on for pages.

“Oh, jeez,” he said aloud. “
That
Ellis Chapman.”

The Ellis Chapman whose father had been named Villain of the Year last year.

The Ellis Chapman whose mother was Lynley Sebastian.

THAT Ellis Chapman.

It was all starting to make sense.

He read one article after another, most of which described her father’s crimes in excruciating detail. There were photos of Ellie—the blond Ellie—walking into the courthouse during her father’s trial accompanied by a dapper older man in a well-tailored suit who was identified as her personal attorney. Photos of her during the press conference in which the district attorney announced that Clifford Chapman had changed his plea to guilty in order to avoid a trial. Photos of her ducking into a limo, her eyes behind the
dark glasses he now recognized. Photos of her and Carly in the hallway outside the courtroom where her father was sentenced. Photos of her dodging questions about her former fiancé.

Photos of the former fiancé himself. God but he looked like a tool. Cam wondered how a man—any man—could trade a chance for a lifetime with a woman like Ellie for something as fleeting as wealth.

All in all, Cam learned more about Ellie—
Ellis
—in that one hour than he had since the day he met her. The bottom line was that her father was the worst kind of crook and her ex-fiancé was the world’s biggest fool—and Ellie as much their victim as the thousands of people they’d defrauded.

He scrolled back to a photo that was taken of her seated in the courtroom at her father’s arraignment. Her face was a study in confusion and pain. It was clear even to Cameron that she’d been totally blindsided by his arrest. He pulled up pages of articles and the accompanying photographs to form a time line of the past year of her life, and found it telling that the only people in the photos with her were either her attorney, or Carly. No other family. No other friends.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why she was hiding her identity.

Cameron completely understood the fear of being judged against the actions of a parent. He knew too well how the sins of the father—or in his case, the mother—could burn into your soul and haunt every day of your life.

It occurred to Cam that Ellie needed to remember that she was Lynley’s daughter as well as that weasel Chapman’s. That she isn’t responsible for what her
father did any more than he, Cam, was responsible for his mother’s actions. Of course, it had taken him years to come to that conclusion. Maybe for Ellie, it was all still too raw for her to view the situation with a more rational eye.

Cam turned off his computer and sat back against the chair. Now that he knew the truth about her, what was he going to do about it?

It took him a moment to realize he wouldn’t be doing anything. It wasn’t his place to confront her, to try to force her into talking about something she wasn’t interested in discussing. If she wanted to continue living a lie, that was her choice, her business, and he didn’t have the right to try to make her confess a secret she wanted to keep. She obviously had her reasons, and he of all people knew how the sins of a parent could mess with your head and make you question who you were and how you felt about yourself.

Cameron had been there and done all that.

No, there’d be no confrontation. What would that prove, beyond the fact that he was clever enough to ferret out her secret, and that wasn’t who he was. He’d be respectful of her privacy as long as she felt it necessary to keep up the facade.

He did wish she’d come to trust him enough to tell him the truth herself, though, but he knew that he’d have to earn that trust, and it would take time.

Cam sat at his desk for a while longer, still trying to process everything he’d just read. If anything, he was left with more questions than answers.

Finally he turned off the lights and locked the doors and was halfway up the steps when his phone rang.

“What’s up, Jesse?” he asked after a glance at the caller ID screen.

“Just wasn’t done busting your stones about having to put out such a hefty sum to ransom Ellie this morning. You’re a good sport to pay that much for a woman you’ve never even taken to dinner.”

“I believe the record shows you paid more for Brooke,” Cam reminded him.

“Yeah.” Jesse’s chuckle had a smug ring to it. “But I get to see Brooke naked.…”

Chapter 13

“I
wish you could stay longer.” Ellie stood in the doorway watching Carly pack.

“So do I. And next time, I will.” Carly glanced up from packing and smiled. “Assuming I’ll be invited back.”

“Of course. Anytime. No special invite needed.” Ellie walked to the bed, sat, and scooched back to lean against the headboard. “Besides, I’m holding the Porsche hostage.”

“Just one more reason why I’m glad I loaned you the sedan. There’s no way I could fit the paintings in the little 911.” She grinned. “Room for all in the Mercedes, though.”

“I’ll take good care of the beast for you.”

“I know you will.” Carly squeezed her toiletries into the suitcase and zipped up the sides. “I just wish I could have rescheduled tomorrow’s meeting. I really thought I’d be able to do that so I could stay a few days longer.”

“Who are you kidding?” Ellie laughed. “You can’t wait to get those paintings back to your house.”

“Well, there is that.” Carly feigned nonchalance
but the gleam in her eyes at the mention of the artwork she’d be taking with her gave her away. “I will buzz through that meeting tomorrow at the speed of light and I’ve canceled everything else I had on my calendar for the next week. This is such an amazing find.”

She hoisted her suitcase and reached for a jacket she’d left on a chair.

“I’ll get it.” Ellie stood and grabbed the jacket. “Got everything from the bathroom?”

Carly nodded. “No harm if I forget something, though. I really will be back as soon as I’ve finished with the paintings. I’ll clean the oils myself and see about having the watercolors backed with acid-free paper.” She paused on the way out the door. “Of course, your mother may have taken care of that herself. It’s hard to tell how old her paintings are.”

Ellie led the way down the steps. “I keep getting little flashbacks of her standing at an easel in a big room on the third floor of our house in Connecticut. There were big windows that looked out over the sound and there was always a lot of light there.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she did a lot of her painting here as well. Next time I’m here, we’ll search for clues.”

They reached the first floor and Carly set her bag on the floor near the door.

“What kind of clues would there be?” Ellie asked.

“The most obvious would be drips of paint on the floor. And you’d want a room that had a lot of light, just like you described. Then again, maybe you’ll find some supplies in a closet or notes, sketches that she later turned into paintings.”

“It seems there’s no end to the surprises this house holds.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?” Carly reached for her jacket and Ellie handed it over. “You know, I feel so much better about you being here. I admit I was worried at first, but after seeing your wonderful house and meeting your new friends—”

“I don’t know anyone here in St. Dennis well enough to consider them friends,” Ellie interjected. “And frankly, that works for me.”

“I think I may have already reminded you that it’s not fair to judge everyone you meet by the people who dumped you in the past,” Carly cautioned.

“It wasn’t just that I was dumped. It was as if I’d been collectively erased from the memories of everyone I’ve ever known. Like I just don’t exist anymore.”

“But you have a chance to start over here. The people I’ve met all seem to accept you at face value.”

“That’s because they don’t know.”

“And when they find out?”

Ellie shrugged. “I’ll be out of here before next summer, so it isn’t going to matter.”

“Is this the same woman who was worried last night about people finding out that she lied?”

“That was in a different context. That was when we were talking about me mining their memories for a book about people they knew.” Ellie shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “That seems actively dishonest.”

“As opposed to passively dishonest?”

“Something like that.”

“So it’s all right to pretend to be someone else as long as things don’t get personal.”

“What’s your point?” Ellie sighed.

“My point is that you have to live somewhere, El.” Carly picked up her bag from the floor. “You have to have a
life
somewhere.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Not saying it would be. But you can’t spend the rest of your life moving from place to place because you’re afraid everyone you meet is going to turn on you.” Before Ellie could respond, Carly added, “Anyway, you’re in a good place here. Whether or not you want to stay, that’s up to you.”

Ellie grabbed a sweater she’d left on the newel post, wrapped it around her shoulders, and opened the front door. Dune came running at the sound of the door opening.

“There’s my little friend.” Carly knelt down to give the dog a scratch behind the ears. “You behave yourself until I come back, hear?”

Ellie stepped outside and held the door for Carly, and Dune followed.

“You know, I’d been envisioning you in a house that was falling down around your head, no heat, no electricity, no running water.…”

Ellie laughed.

“Well, you said the house had been vacant at least since your mom died, and that’s been twelve years. I figured it would be a ruin by now. You do have lots to do here, but it’s a house that gives you roots, you know?” Carly stood halfway along the path and looked over her shoulder at the house. “It’s a place your mom loved, and that should give you some comfort.”

“It does, actually.”

“Well, if you have to start over, this is the place to be. Lick your wounds until they’re clean, babe. Rechart your course. Move ahead.”

“You sound like one of those motivational speakers you see on TV.”

Carly laughed as she opened the trunk. “Some nights when I’m traveling and I can’t sleep, there’s nothing else on cable.” She tucked her suitcase next to a pile of paintings that were carefully wrapped in sheets. “I still can’t believe what we found in your house, and that you’re actually letting me take these precious paintings with me.”