The Cottage on the Corner (12 page)

“What's to feel silly about?”

“Us. Going through my house checking all the locks even though two police officers just told me that no one was in the house when I got home.”

“We could check under the beds, too, if you want,” he suggested.

Charlotte wanted to. She really did. She wanted to check under the beds, in the closets, under the couch, and in the cupboards, because no matter what Elizabeth and Simon thought, she couldn't imagine Zim leaving the back door open.

“That would be even sillier,” she said, doing her best not to notice the breadth of Max's shoulders as he pushed open the door to her room. She really didn't want him in there. It was too . . . old-fashioned. Too much of what she didn't want to be anymore—sweet and unassuming, traditional and boring.

She'd tried to give that up after she left Montana. She'd made sure to decorate the kitchen with modern appliances and state-of-the-art equipment. She'd used most of her savings to create what she imagined most chefs would love. She
did
love it, but when she was honest with herself, she'd admit that she'd have been just as happy with cherrywood cabinets and a 1950s stove.

She'd pulled up 1970s carpet in the living room and left the old wooden floors because they were more her style than the modern sofa she'd bought. The fact was no matter how much she tried to be different, she really was an old-fashioned kind of girl.

“Nice room,” he murmured as she walked past.

She didn't dare look at his face. If he was mocking her, she didn't want to know it. “Thanks.”

“You have good taste in furniture.” He ran a hand over the antique headboard she'd bought after Brett died. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd have appreciated, but she'd loved the carved Victorian piece. “This is Victorian, right?”

“Yes.” She checked the window. Locked tight. Just as she'd known it would be.

“And how about this?” He lifted an old Foley from the shelf above the bed. It was part of her secret passion. No knickknacks. No expensive jewelry. No shoe closet full of shoes or clothes. She collected old kitchen equipment.

“It's a Foley.”

“Okay,” he said, setting it back on the shelf. “That helped me not at all.”

“A Foley is a masher. You can put cooked apples or potatoes in it.” She lifted it, loving the feel of the old metal and the wooden edge of the handle. “It attaches to a bowl, and you just spin this handle and the food comes out the holes. It makes great applesauce.”

“You've used it?”

“Just once. I wanted to see how it worked.”

“I bet you were imagining the first owner, right? Hanging out in her hot kitchen, excited to use her brand-new, state-of-the-art potato masher.”

He was right.

That's exactly what she'd done.

“There's just one more lower-level window. It's in the bathroom,” she said, because they were stepping into personal territory, and that was a place she tried hard not to go.

“Charlotte.” Max stepped between her and the door, his expression soft and easy, his eyes deep midnight blue. He shouldn't have been a nice guy. Not with his looks and his reputation, but she was starting to think he was one, and that could prove a very dangerous thing.

“It's late, Max. You need to get back to Zuzu.” She tried to get him moving, but he didn't seem eager to step out of the way.

“What are you running from, Charlotte?” he asked.

“I'm not running.”

“Could have fooled me.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, traced a line from there to her temple and the scar she'd had for so many years, she'd almost forgotten how she'd gotten it.

Almost.

But it was hard to forget something that haunted her dreams.

“You took a pretty hard hit,” Max murmured, following the scar with his finger. It felt so good to be touched, and it had been so long since anyone had bothered, that she let herself stay right where she was, his fingers moving along her scalp, his free hand cupping her upper arm. “What happened?”

“I fractured my skull. I was in the hospital for nearly two weeks.” Because it hadn't just been her skull that had been fractured. She'd also cracked a vertebra in her back and fractured her arm.

“Car accident?”

“I fell down the stairs.” At least that's what the ER doctor had been told. It's what the police had been told. It's what Charlotte's mother had told herself so many times that she'd started believing it.

That was the thing about lies. If you told them enough, they became their own version of the truth.

“Must have been some steep stairs.”

“Attic stairs in an old Chicago apartment. They were very steep with a wooden floor at the bottom.”

“That explains it, then.”

“Explains what?”

“Your unreasonable fear of attics.”

“I am not unreasonably afraid. Even if I was, it wouldn't have anything to do with my fall,” she protested, but he was right. She'd always been afraid of the attic in that old house. After she'd been shoved down the stairs, the fear had blown itself completely out of proportion.

Not every attic had a monster living in it.

“Good, because we need to check that bathroom window and then check the attic before I leave.” He sauntered into the bathroom, checked the lock on the window, and made his way to the end of the hall. The attic door was there. She kept it locked. For obvious reasons. If her bastard of a father could come back to haunt her, he'd do it from the cavernous room at the top of those attic stairs.

Max turned the old-fashioned glass knob. “Where's the key?”

“In my room.”

“Want to get it?”

Not really. But she'd look like a fool if she told him that, so she grabbed the skeleton key from the jewelry box on her dresser and handed it to him. She wasn't even sure the key would work. It had been in the door when she'd moved in. She'd taken it out, put it in her jewelry box, and she'd left it there for the past two years. She only knew that there was a bedroom and bathroom upstairs because a Realtor had tried to convince her to sell the property. She would have made a tidy sum off the sale, but she'd liked the peaceful town, loved looking out her windows and seeing distant mountains and deep green pine forests. She also loved not having a mortgage.

The skeleton key slid into the lock easily.

Max turned it and the door swung open on creaky, squeaky hinges.

“You need to oil the hinges,” Max commented as he flipped a switch and turned on the light. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Coming up?”

“Sure,” she responded, because walking up into the attic with Max was the reasonable thing to do, the mature thing.

But God! She didn't want to do it.

The stairs creaked under her feet. Of course. That's the way it always happened in horror movies. Doors squeaked. Stairs creaked. Dark shadows hid danger. In her nightmare, she was always right at the top of the stairs when the monster lunged.

Not the best time to be thinking about
that
.

Max reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into the room beyond, his footsteps padding on hardwood floor. She could just let him search the room, but that would be the coward's way of doing things.

She might have spent a lot of years being a fool, but she'd never been a coward. She walked up the last few stairs, her heart galloping like a racehorse.

“Someone spent a lot of money on renovating this,” Max called from the doorway of what must have been the bathroom.

Really?

She hadn't noticed. She'd been too busy trying to keep herself from running right back down the stairs.

“Hey”—he crossed the room, put a hand on her shoulder—“don't look so scared.”

“I'm not scared,” she managed to say. “I'm terrified.”

“Too bad. This is a beautiful room. If you got over your unreasonable fear—”

“I already told you, I do not have an unreasonable fear of attics! My fear is completely rational and normal,” she snapped, anger chasing away a little of the fear. It must have cleared her vision, too, because she could suddenly see just how beautiful the room was. Muted yellow paint and white wainscoting on the walls, a four-poster bed and antique dresser with a warped mirror, bookcases covered with old books. Dormer windows looked out onto Main Street and two more windows looked into the backyard.

“Sure, it is.”

“It is, and even if it wasn't reasonable, being afraid of attics doesn't mean I have a phobia.”

“But isn't that's what a phobia is? An unreasonable fear?” His hand slid from her shoulder to her hand, his fingers curling around hers.

“I do not have a phobia of attics,” she protested again, but he was probably right. She probably did.

Which was really a shame, because the room was dusty but gorgeous. She could see the previous owner in every detail of it. The silver brush and mirror sitting on the dresser, the pictures of angels hanging from the walls. The renters must have left the attic alone and untouched. A miracle, really. Although anyone in his right mind could see that the room was a special place.

Too bad it was an
attic
.

“Sure you do, but you know what they say.”

“Who's they?”

“Whoever says things.” He tugged her deeper into the room, his fingers woven through hers. “The best way to get over a phobia is to face it head-on. Replace all those old fears with pleasant experiences.”

“I hate to break the news to you, Max, but standing in an old attic is never going to be a pleasant experience.” Ever. Not in a million years. But she had to admit, the space felt more like a room than an attic, the narrow planks of the wooden floor scratched and dull but lovely. Someone had hung a huge crystal chandelier from the cathedral ceiling. It would have been gaudy in another room, but it fit there, the old crystal sparkling like snow on a winter morning.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, his free hand sliding around her waist, his fingers finding their way under her T-shirt and settling right at the base of her spine.

She should have backed away. Really. She should have, but he smelled like thick forest and late-summer sunshine, and she couldn't make herself move.

“Sure about what?” she managed to ask, her voice breathy and light.

Walk away!
her brain whispered.

But Max leaned down, his face so close, she could see silver flecks in his dark blue eyes. “Sure that we can't replace those old memories with some new much more pleasant ones?”

She was going to tell him that she was sure, but his lips skimmed hers, tentative, light. Questioning and questing, looking for something she wasn't sure she should want to give.

“What do you say, Charlotte?” he murmured, his lips grazing her jaw. “Want to make some pleasant memories?”

No. God, no!

Because once those memories were made, she'd never be able to unmake them.

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass.”

He nodded, but his gaze dropped to her lips. It lingered there, and she could swear that she still felt the light tentative touch of his lips brushing against hers.

“The room is clear. Looks like you're good to go, so I'd better head out,” Max finally said. Then he walked down the stairs and out the front door without another word.

It was for the best.

There was nothing either of them could say about that moment of weakness, that sweet tentative touch of lips.

Except . . .
let's do that again
.

That
would probably get them both into more trouble than either wanted to be in. Better to say good night and forget the whole thing, because Max was a player, and Charlotte didn't need someone like that in her life ever again.

Max called the number on the business card three times before eight
A.M.
Morgan didn't answer. He hadn't really expected her to. She'd always been the kind to do things in her own time and in her own way. The only obligation she'd ever seemed to feel was toward her skin and her hair. When they'd lived together, she'd had a tight schedule for that kind of stuff. Everything else happened when it happened.

He hadn't cared. He had his own issues, and he wasn't big on criticizing others for theirs. If Morgan hadn't had the opposite philosophy, they might still be together. She'd been a nitpicker, a micromanager. A cheat. He'd seen that one coming a mile away, but he hadn't cared all that much about that, either.

Which had been as much of the problem as everything else.

He should have cared, right?

He picked up the phone, dialed one more time. Voicemail picked up immediately. He left a fourth message. “Morgan, I'm assuming you're not dead, so how about you check in and see how your kid is doing? If I don't hear from you by this evening, I'm going to put you into the system as a missing person and issue an APB on your car.”

He would, too. He didn't have time for Morgan's crap. He had a job, a life, things he wanted to do besides care for a little girl.

Although, he had to admit, Zuzu was a cute kid. The kind of kid Max had probably been. Full of energy and mischief.

Speaking of which . . .

He glanced into the living room. Zuzu was parked in front of the TV, watching a cartoon about guinea pigs. Or maybe they were rats. Either way, he wasn't sure it was the best show for a little kid.

“What are you watching, Zuzu?” he asked, tucking the business card into his wallet.

“TV.”

“Smarta—” Nope. Not the right thing to say to a three-year-old. “What is it about?”

“Monkeys.”

The things didn't look like monkeys to him, but he wasn't going to argue with a little kid. “Cool. Are you hungry?”

“I want cookies,” she said, scrambling up from the floor and running over.

“Not for breakfast.”

“I want pizza.”

“You can't have that, either,” he responded, scooping her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Please?” she begged.

He laughed, surprised and just a little pleased by her mischief. She was a cute kid, a sweet kid, and if she was
his
kid, he'd do everything in his power to make sure that she had the kind of childhood that he'd missed out on.

He grabbed crackers and the last piece of cheese from the fridge. He had to find the grocery list he'd made the previous night, because he was going to have to stop at the store.

“I'm going to make you a cracker sandwich, and then I have to go to work. You're going to be good for Ms. Ida today, right?”

She put her hands on his cheeks, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, “I don't think so.”

“
I
think so. If Ms. Ida says she can't watch you anymore, we're going to be sunk. You know what that means?”

She shook her head solemnly.

“It means big trouble.” He set her down and dragged a bowl from the cupboard. He had one fry pan, two or three plates, and a few cups. Every one of them in the tiny dishwasher. Still dirty. He needed dish detergent.

“I'm not gettin' trouble.” Zuzu's fists rested on her hips and she stuck out her lower lip.

“Not if you're good for Ms. Ida, you aren't.” He layered cheese on four crackers, covered each with another saltine. “There you are, kid.”

He lifted her into a chair, and let her go to town. Ida would be there any minute, and he needed to clean the living room before she arrived. There were dolls on the floor, piles of clothes on the sofa. Everything he'd brought home from the office was spread over every surface in the room. Ida would have heart failure if she saw it.

He scooped up an armload of clothes, headed for the guest room, and heard someone knock on the door.

“Damn!” he muttered. He tossed the stuff on the bed and ran to the door. Zuzu was already there, doing everything in her power to open it. That would have been fine, except that he didn't want her opening doors when she didn't know who was standing on the other side.

Plus she was holding a handful of crumbled cracker and smooshed cheese.

“You have to let me open the door, Zuzu. You don't even know who's out there.”

“It's Ida!” she squealed.

“You still have to let me open the door.”

He'd have to remember to bolt it next time.

He moved her out of the way and opened the door himself.

“Good morning,” Ida said cheerfully, her slacks crisp and neat, her coat pristine, her shoes practical.

“You're a little early,” he responded.

As was Ida's way, she didn't take offense. “Fifteen minutes.” She glanced at Zuzu and the handful of food that was spilling onto the floor. “But I can see that I'm not a moment too soon. Come on, dear, into the kitchen with your food.”

She took Zuzu's hand and walked her into the kitchen.

She'd probably cataloged every piece of clothing, every doll, every blanket that needed to be picked up on her way there.

“I'm sorry about the mess, Ida,” he started to explain, but she raised a hand and shook her head.

“No need to apologize. Parenting is hard work. Let me tell you, when I had children this age, there were always baskets of dirty laundry and a sink full of dirty dishes. I blessed the day my husband bought me a dishwasher, I can tell you that!” She grabbed a dishcloth and wiped Zuzu's hand. “Of course, the days when children are this age pass too quickly, so I'm glad I didn't waste too much time trying to keep up with the mess.”

She helped Zuzu back into her seat and kissed her head. “There you are, darling. You finish at the table, and when you're done, we'll go over to my house.”

“Are you sure about that, Ida? Zuzu is a little . . .” He was going to say hellion, but he didn't think his landlady would appreciate the language. “. . . bit of trouble.”

“Have you forgotten that I have several great-grandchildren? One of them is close to Zuzu's age. I know how to keep a toddler occupied. Besides, I'm having the ladies' auxiliary over this morning. We're having some of Charlotte's delicious scones. Pumpkin. Raisin. Lemon. Blueberry.” She sighed in apparent bliss.

Max didn't sigh but he did start thinking of reasons to stop by Ida's place after Charlotte delivered the goods. She made fantastic scones. The kind a man could eat every day and never get tired of. She also made good cookies, good meatloaf, good mashed potatoes. As a matter of fact, after last night's kiss, he was beginning to wonder if the rumors about Charlotte's cooking were true. Maybe there really was something magical in things she baked.

He frowned, turning his thoughts away from Charlotte, because he'd been spending way too much time thinking about her. “Sounds great, but won't it be difficult to watch Zuzu and have a meeting?”

“Are you kidding me? The ladies are dying to meet your little girl. They'll all help out.” She picked up a blanket and folded it into a neat little square.

“Ida, I already told you, she's not my—”

“Hush! Do you want the poor little thing hearing you deny her paternity?” she whispered.

He didn't suppose that he did.

“I don't think she understands a word we're saying.”

“She's a very bright little girl, Max. Even if she wasn't, it can't be good for a child's psychological well-being to be denied by someone.”

“I'm not denying her. I'm just saying—”

“Here's what I think, for what it's worth. Wait until you've had a paternity test. Then let everyone know the truth. One way or another.”

“That's what I was planning to do.”

“You were planning well. You just forgot that Zuzu is perfectly capable of understanding a lot of what you're talking about. And, really, Max, the fact is, no birth control is a hundred percent effective. Unless you and Morgan weren't having—”

“Ida, I really don't want to have this conversation with you.”

“Do you think I don't know where children come from?” She laughed.

He tried to smile, but he figured it looked more like a scowl, because Ida patted his cheek. “Go to work. As mayor, I'd hate to write you up a citation for being late to your job.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his hat, and shoved it on his head. He didn't have to leave for another fifteen minutes, but if Ida was sending him on his way, he'd happily go.

“Bye, Daddy!” Zuzu called.

His blood ran so cold, he was surprised it didn't solidify in his veins.

He wanted to say,
I'm not your dad,
but he didn't have the heart to correct the kid. Besides, what if he
was
her dad?

God! Wouldn't that be a mess?

“Bye, Zuzu,” he said.

She blew a kiss, and he had no choice but to reach out and catch it. He had to blow one back too, because kids had sensitive feelings.

The previous night's storm had blown over, and the air was dry and still, the frigid cold slicing through his coat as he made his way to the Corvette. He'd thrown salt down on the steps, but he grabbed a bag from the garage and layered some more down. He didn't want Ida or Zuzu to fall.

He was setting the bag in the garage when Charlotte pulled into the driveway, her station wagon chugging fitfully, white exhaust trailing along behind it.

She had the scones with her, but that wasn't why he opened her door and offered her a hand out.

 

 

Dear heaven above, did the man have to be in Ida's driveway just as Charlotte was pulling in? And did he have to look so refreshed and wide-awake and happy when Charlotte felt tired and crappy and all-around frumpy?

“Good morning, Charlotte,” he drawled as he tugged her out of the car, the heat of his palm searing through her skin.

Her toes curled in her boots and her insides threatened to melt.

She yanked her hand away.

“Pretty day, isn't it?” he asked with a smile.

“If you say so,” she muttered, wishing that she'd at least taken the time to dry her hair. All the creaks and groans of the old house, the howling of the wind, the splattering ice against the windows had kept her awake way too late. She'd pressed snooze three times before she'd finally dragged herself from bed and started baking. That had been four hours ago. Which meant she'd gotten about an hour of sleep. She scowled and stalked to the back of the car.

“Not a morning person, huh?” Max followed her and took the first box of scones as she dragged it from the car.

“I can manage this, Max. If you need to go to work, go right ahead and leave.”

“In other words, you'd rather I weren't here?”

“In other words, I'm not in the mood for conversation.”

“Tough night?”

“You could say that.” She took the second box of scones. Lemon and blueberry. Still warm from the oven. She could smell the fruit and vanilla, and her stomach growled.

“Any more slamming doors?”

“No.” But she'd imagined all sorts of other noises. Creaking floorboards. Heavy breathing. Curtains swishing when they shouldn't have been. It seemed silly in the bright light of day, but if she hadn't walked through every room with Max, she'd have been absolutely convinced someone was in the house with her.

“But you were scared, huh?” He touched her waist, leading her along the cobblestone path to Ida's house.

“Not enough to call in the cavalry,” she replied.

“I'm not surprised.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you don't seem like the kind of person who ever feels the need to call for help.”

“I called yesterday.”

“Because you thought you were in imminent danger.”

“Is there any other reason for calling in the cavalry?”

“Ask Zim. He calls every hour on the hour.”

“Zim is a law unto himself, but he's a good guy. Underneath all the gruff and gristle.”

“Gristle?”

“You know . . . the chewy fatty part of the beef that no one can stomach?”

“That's a perfect description of Zim's personality.” He chuckled as they walked into Ida's huge foyer.

Marble tiles, gorgeous oil paintings, and a basket of shoes left behind by Ida's great-grandchildren. Fancy mixed with homey. Charlotte had been in the house quite a few times, and she'd always been secretly pleased at the little bits of childish clutter she found there. This was the kind of place every child should have in his life—a nice place to come for a visit or to stay for a while. No need for the marble floors, of course. Or the oil paintings. It didn't need to be a big place or a fancy one. It just needed to be a place where children were welcome and wanted, where they could be nurtured and loved. That's what Charlotte would have wanted for her children if she'd had any.

The dining room jutted off to the left of the foyer, and Charlotte set the scones on the cherrywood table there. She hadn't bothered bringing anything but the scones and some plastic wrap. Ida liked to serve everything on the tiny silver plates that she kept in her antique buffet.

Charlotte opened the cupboard beneath it and took out what she needed.

“Those are some fancy plates,” Max commented as he took one from her hand and set it on the table.

“They're family heirlooms. Ida says that her great-great-grandmother received them as a wedding gift.” She took out the silver teapot that Ida would fill with hot water and use to serve tea. The only thing Charlotte had from
her
family were scars, but she tried not to be bitter about it.