The Spring at Moss Hill (11 page)

“And when you're not on a tight deadline?”

“It's not that different.”

“But you like your work,” he said, studying her from across the table.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks. How had she let the subject turn back to her? She smiled. “Very much. Do you like your work?”

“It suits me. When I went out on my own after the navy, I discovered how easy it is to let your life get out of balance when you're your own boss. Is that what happened to you—why you moved to Knights Bridge?”

“I guess you could say that.” She kept any defensiveness out of her tone. “You must have intense times in your work when you can't do much else. Like now—you're on the job, not on vacation.”

He leaned over the table slightly. “I'm having dinner with an intriguing woman.”

“A woman you don't quite trust.” The words were out before Kylie could stop them.

“Only because you're hiding something,” he said.

She didn't look away from him. “I'm protective of my work,” she said truthfully. “I don't like talking about it, especially when I'm in the midst of a project. I find that talking dissipates creative energy that needs to go into the work.”

“Does that mean I don't get to see your wolf before it's in print?”

His eyes were half-closed, but his sardonic tone and almost-smile helped take the edge off her nerves. “Sometimes I'll show concepts to people—if, say, I can't decide between two or three different wolves.”

“How often is ‘sometimes?'”

“Not often.” She got to her feet and fetched the wine bottle, dividing the last of the merlot between their two glasses. “Do you talk about your work?”

“When it's necessary.”

“Here's my take.” She set the empty bottle on the counter and sat back down with her wine. “I think you focus on doing the job you were hired to do and don't worry about the niceties. What do you think, am I close?”

“Close. Sometimes I have to worry about niceties.”

“And how often is ‘sometimes,' PI Colton?”

He laughed, surprising her. “Touché, Kylie. About as often as you're open with other people about your work.”

That wasn't exactly what she'd said, but she suspected he knew it. The man had great control, and he no doubt was good at his job and knew how to pry information out of people. But she didn't bite by attempting to correct him. “It must be interesting working for a Beverly Hills law firm,” she said. “Do you have good colleagues?”

“Excellent colleagues. That helps. Julius Hartley is a friend, and he has a great deal of experience with law firm investigations. I'm newer to the work.”

“He has more experience handling clients like Daphne Stewart, too, I bet.”

“A facility with ‘niceties' comes in handy with her.”

He shifted the conversation to the pair of ducks he'd spotted on the river. They'd braved a break in the rain, and the rush of water over the dam. “Wonder where they are now,” he said, getting up from the table. He seemed to debate what to do next, if only for a split second. He picked up his wineglass and walked over to the tall windows. “Where's the house you rented?”

Kylie stood next to him. “You can't see it from here. It's just past the covered bridge up the river.”

“The one with the gray shingles, then. I thought so. I was up there yesterday on my run. Do you have anyone you check in with on a regular basis—in case anything happens?”

“My parents and sister and I check in with each other. I leave a note on the kitchen counter when I go for walks and carry my phone with me in case of emergency. But it's not something I worry a lot about. Knights Bridge isn't a high-crime area, and I don't do extreme hiking by myself.”

She noticed she had less wine in her glass than he did in his, perhaps not the best sign since she was trying to measure her words. He was already suspicious. She didn't need to give him more reasons to pry into her life. She wasn't sure how he would react to finding out she was Morwenna Mills, but she didn't need to find out. She was determined to stick to her own timetable, whatever it ended up being.

She pointed her glass in the vague direction of the river. “It was something to watch the ice jams this winter and early spring. Fortunately, they didn't cause any major flooding.”

“That's good.” He gave a mock shudder and grinned. “Ice. A frozen river. Not what I want to think about right now.”

“You must be glad this master class wasn't in February.”

“You'd have still been in your house up the road. I'd probably be staying with the goats at Ruby's mother's house. You and I might never have met.”

“Destiny at work, maybe,” Kylie said lightly.

There was nothing light about him as he turned to her. “Maybe.” But he started for the table. “I'll help clean up the dishes and be on my way. I can return the basket to Ruby. It was decent of her sister to make us dinner.”

Kylie welcomed the change in subject. Why had she brought up destiny? Pure self-consciousness, she thought. That or too much wine. “Have you met Maggie yet?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“She's good friends with Olivia Frost—Olivia McCaffrey now.”

“That's what I hear. Do you know them well?”

“Just enough to say hi to.”

“The busy artist,” he said with a smile.

Kylie didn't detect any condescension in his tone.

He went over to the table and blew out the candles, then collected dishes and silverware and took them to the sink. She watched him, wondered what it would be like to have such a man in her life—to talk to over wine and help with the dishes. But she didn't trust herself now, with the merlot, her solitary habits. She'd encountered more people in the past few days than she had since moving into Moss Hill in March. She wasn't used to it, but she didn't object. At the same time, she doubted prolonged solitude explained her reaction to Russ Colton. He was perceptive, he had a sense of humor, and he seemed sympathetic and understanding of Ruby's jitters and even Daphne Stewart's drama. He was tough and focused, but he wasn't prone to drama or overreacting himself. Kylie was grateful he hadn't brought up the rumors about Moss Hill over dinner.

But she knew she wasn't always the best judge of people. Given her natural tendency to like everyone she met, she could be oblivious and overlook basic facts.

Such as Russ lived in California and was going back there.

Soon.

At the door, basket in hand, he paused, then kissed her on the cheek. “Nice getting to know you better, Kylie,” he said, close enough that she could feel the brush of his jacket against her.

He was out the door before she got her next breath.

* * *

It was twenty minutes before Kylie noticed Sherlock Badger in his spot on her task lamp.

She'd missed him. Completely. She'd talked to him while cleaning up the place, and still she hadn't tucked him out of sight in a drawer or a box or, better yet, under her pillow, since there was no chance Russ would get close to her bedroom, quick kiss or no quick kiss.

“Sherlock,” she said. “Damn, why couldn't you have spoken up?”

He was such a part of her day-to-day life that she hadn't thought of him as a dead giveaway to Morwenna. She'd made him to give herself a different perspective on her badgers, a sense of what they might look like if they were real. A lark, procrastination, a necessity—whatever it had been, she'd enjoyed the process and enjoyed having him there to talk to.

Had Russ seen Sherlock?

Of course he had.

Russ was an experienced investigator. He wouldn't need much time to discover the little badger on her lamp was an exact rendition of Sherlock Badger in a popular series of children's books created by author and illustrator Morwenna Mills.

If
he decided to investigate. He might not care about a four-inch stuffed badger.

But he cared about her and what she was hiding.

Would he find out she was Morwenna tonight? By morning?

Kylie groaned. All that cleaning in an attempt to maintain control of dinner, and she'd never had control. She'd flat-out missed Sherlock. She debated grabbing him and knocking on Russ's door, telling him about Morwenna herself, but what good would that do?

She touched her cheek where he'd kissed her.

Why borrow trouble?

She was staying put.

Ten

K
ylie Shaw had clearly done her best to sanitize her apartment of all specific references to her work before letting him in.

Russ turned on lights in his own apartment and set the basket on the kitchen counter. He'd wash the serving dishes later.

His apartment was larger than Kylie's but not by much. He'd noticed straight away that she'd done more than tidied and dusted before guests arrived. It wasn't just the space itself that had given her away, but her reaction when he'd taken a look around.

She must have scrambled when Ruby O'Dunn had maneuvered her into hosting dinner. Had Ruby wanted to get a look inside Kylie's apartment, too?

He sat in a leather chair by the unlit fireplace. It was a night for a fire, but he found himself enjoying the damp, chilly air. He got out his phone. He thought he might be onto what Kylie didn't want people to know. Either that or he was totally off base, wrong and losing his mind.

He checked his photos and came to the one he'd taken surreptitiously while she'd unloaded the food basket. He held it under the lamp for a good, close look.

“Yes, sir, we have a badger.”

His cagey neighbor had slipped up.

He was almost certain Kylie hadn't meant him to see the cute stuffed badger standing at the base of the lamp on her worktable. It was about four inches tall and looked handmade, crafted from bits of wool fabric and who-knew-what-else. Russ's sewing skills began and ended with the occasional button, snap and tear.

The badger was dressed up like Sherlock Holmes, complete with a deerstalker hat and classic Victorian tweed overcoat.

Russ had the feeling he was supposed to recognize the little critter.

He texted the photo to Marty.
Any idea who this is?

Marty's response was almost instantaneous.
Sherlock Badger.

Who?

Badgers of Middle Branch. Kids books. Popular. Talk of a movie.

Thanks. Keep this quiet for now.

Daphne?

Tell no one. Her, Julius, your screenwriting pals.

Got it. Mum.

Russ tossed his phone onto the side table and got out his laptop.

In three seconds he had his answer.

Morwenna Mills was the illustrator and author of a series of books about a family of badgers in a small town called Middle Branch. Their lives centered around their veterinary office and quirky house and the town.

Sherlock Badger was the lawman of the family, but he worked in “the city” and only came to Middle Branch once in a while.

This, according to a description of the characters on Morwenna's website.

Not much on her. In fact, the “About Morwenna” section was deliberately geared to kids—short, amusing, not intended to be taken as a serious, professional description of her. Grew up in New England. Loved animals, long walks in the woods, making chocolate chip cookies and picking apples.

Morwenna lives on a river near a covered bridge, where she is deep into her next Badger book.

Not enough by itself to peg Kylie Shaw as Morwenna Mills, but in combination with the stuffed badger and Kylie's behavior—it was plenty.

Russ continued his research. He was comfortable confirming, if only to himself, that his dinner companion was the creator of the Badgers of little Middle Branch.

By the time he and Ruby had arrived with the picnic basket, he'd just about convinced himself Kylie had something really unsettling to hide.

Nope. Badgers.

The fourth book in the series had been released in November, another instant hit. The popularity of Morwenna Mills and the Badgers was still on the upswing.

He found one short interview with Morwenna, done last summer, no mention of Knights Bridge or her real name—and no photographs. The article described her as living in rural New England and inspired by her long walks in the woods.

“Well, well,” Russ said, shutting down his laptop and setting it aside.

His neighbor across the hall was hiding something, just not what he'd imagined.

Should he tell Kylie he knew about her alter ego?

He shook his head, the answer obvious as soon as he'd posed the question to himself. No, he shouldn't. If she guessed or worried he'd figured out she was Morwenna Mills, let her bring it up. If she didn't—he didn't plan to tell anyone. No point. He'd be back in California soon.

He got a beer out of the fridge and went out to the balcony. The rain had stopped, but the air was raw, the river rushing over the dam, the fog impenetrable. He couldn't see the sky, never mind any stars.

Alone on nights like this, would he come up with an adventurous family of badgers?

He would not.

He went back inside and bought an e-version of
The Badgers of Middle Branch
, the first book in the series. He opened it as he sat again by the unlit fireplace.

It was true. He was reading a children's book about badgers on a dark, rainy New England night.

Eleven

D
aphne decided to continue with her rose-trimming despite Loretta Wrentham's surprise visit. The sooner Loretta, aka Mrs. Julius Hartley, went back to La Jolla, the better, Daphne thought. She liked Loretta well enough, but she had one of those incisive lawyer minds, and Daphne was too preoccupied to deal with incisive. She wanted indulgent, or just nothing—just to be left alone with her roses.

“I can understand why that little town makes you nervous,” Loretta said, sitting by the pool, easing off her sandals. “I don't have a secret attic room in the library and an abusive father I left behind in Knights Bridge. The O'Dunns and their goats are enough to make me nervous. And all that romance going on there.”

“No wonder you ended up marrying Julius,” Daphne said.

“Ha. True.”

But she was obviously so happy with him, and he with her. Daphne wasn't proud of herself for not wishing them well, at least in the beginning. She'd gotten used to having Julius around. There wasn't and never had been an ounce of lust between them, but they'd become good friends.

She clipped a wilted peach rose. “My father hated Knights Bridge.”

Loretta sank back in the lounge chair. “Is that why you're trying to like it?”

“I do like it.”

“But it's in your past—a past you're not sure you want to stir up more than you already have. You didn't get sucked into going back because of anything particular that Ava and Ruby O'Dunn did or said. You got sucked in because of yourself.”

“No one sucked me into anything.”

Daphne heard the defensiveness in her voice. Loretta would hear it, too. She wouldn't care—nothing seemed to bother her—but she'd duly note Daphne's reaction. She tackled another rose branch. She wore garden gloves but still had managed to bloody herself on thorns. No doubt Loretta noticed that, too.

“I got caught up in Ava and Ruby's youthful exuberance,” Daphne added. “Now, push has come to shove, I suppose.”

“Then you're going to Knights Bridge this week,” Loretta said. “You're not backing out.”

“I promised Ava and Ruby. I might whine and moan, but I keep my promises.”

“Julius and I can go with you.”

Daphne shook her head. “You have things to do. I'll be fine.”

“But you'd like an entourage,” Loretta said with a wry smile.

“Who wouldn't?”

Daphne set her clippers on the patio table and offered Loretta iced tea. To her surprise, Loretta accepted. Daphne left her by the pool and went into the kitchen to put a tray together. A pitcher of tea, two glasses, a bucket of ice and a small plate with sliced lemons. She took a guess that Loretta didn't use sugar in her tea.

Going whole hog with playing hostess, she grabbed cloth napkins and a couple of fresh ripe peaches on her way out to the patio.

“You've got a great house,” Loretta said. “This is a sweet backyard.”

“I finally have everything the way I want it. I'll probably start itching to make changes in a year or two, though.” Daphne smiled, taking a lounge chair under an umbrella next to Loretta. “Never satisfied.”

“We're making space in La Jolla for Julius's golf clubs and antique grandfather clock,” Loretta said.

“I like how you say
we
even though it's your house.”

“It was my house. Now it's our house.”

Daphne wondered how long that sentiment would last but decided she was being negative. If she ever married again—and she wouldn't—she would insist on them both keeping their own homes. She was too set in her ways these days to make space for a grandfather clock. Golf clubs she could manage, she supposed, but she'd always hated golf.

She and Loretta chatted about the joys and challenges of combining two longtime households, steering clear of further talk of Daphne's imminent departure for Knights Bridge. She enjoyed her visit with Loretta but knew it hadn't been without Julius's knowledge and approval—just a new friend stopping by on impulse.

After Loretta left, Daphne stayed out at the pool. She felt mildly guilty that she'd inflicted her ambivalence about Knights Bridge on Julius and Loretta. They were moving, starting a life together. They didn't need added drama from her.

She gathered up the tea dishes and took the tray into the kitchen, but she left it for later and went into her studio. She sat on the high chair at her worktable and fingered a pair of scissors she'd owned for thirty-seven years. They were her first good scissors. She remembered feeling rich and successful—feeling them cut into fabric for the first time, their glide and precision. She'd had her first few jobs working in costume design by then. She'd been living in a cheap apartment, staying up late and getting up early, waiting tables to make ends meet, and she'd thought life couldn't get any better.

Now she was one of the first designers called when a movie was coming together.

She got out a bit of fabric and cut it with her scissors. She kept them in good shape. They'd last longer than she would.

Sewing in her secret room in the attic of the library her great-great-grandfather had built had helped her figure out who she was and what she wanted. She'd been desperate to be somebody. To not be the damaged teenager she'd thought herself to be.

All these years later, she couldn't believe she'd agreed to return to Knights Bridge—first for the fashion show in September, and now for this master class. She'd let herself get caught up in Ava and Ruby O'Dunn's talk of their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their desire to give back to their small town.

And their fascination with her and her work, Daphne admitted.

She'd let her ego get involved.

She put her scissors away and left her studio, shutting the door behind her. She never took her work into the rest of the house. It was one of her few rules.

She went into her bedroom, slipped into a swimsuit and returned to her lounge chair on the patio. She stretched out and shut her eyes, feeling the sunshine on her face.

What if I'd never left Knights Bridge?

She shuddered, not wanting to imagine.

But that was what she was afraid of, wasn't it? That she'd go back now and discover she'd never left, and all this—her house, her pool, her life—didn't exist. That Daphne Stewart was a dream of a sad, unfulfilled Debbie Sanderson.

It wasn't about Knights Bridge or what she might have done if she'd stayed, whether she'd continued to work at the library or become a teacher or a landscaper or a housewife. It was about this life, here, now, in Hollywood Hills.

She sat up straight. “I should call Julius and tell him I've gone mad.”

He'd either straighten her out or make arrangements for a long-term care facility.

“Colt Russell would, too.” She laughed aloud, almost a giggle. “Colt Russell. One day you're going to forget his real name is Russ Colton.”

She was being dramatic and ridiculous, and she knew it.

Feeling better, she eased off her chair and into the pool, content with her life, more certain about going back East...back home to Knights Bridge.

* * *

By her second martini, made, of course, by Marty Colton, Daphne had lost her resolve about her upcoming trip.

She was also convinced Marty had gone heavy on the pineapple juice.

She didn't say anything, because she'd only ordered a second drink after she'd slopped at least a third of the first one on her top. Marty must have decided she'd had too much alcohol for one evening, or she'd started early, when she'd just been clumsy.

“Have you talked to Russ since he headed east?” she asked.

“Texted.”

“Did he mention if Julius told him I'm getting cold feet?”

Marty shrugged. “So what if he did? You are getting cold feet.”

“I never get cold feet. It's a pejorative description for deliberate reconsideration.”

“Okay, you're deliberately reconsidering your commitment to teach this class on Saturday.”

Daphne lifted her glass. “You used commitment to remind me I have an obligation to these people, didn't you?

“Uh-uh. Not biting” Marty reached for a bottle on a shelf above his head. “You're trying to pick a fight with me to keep yourself from thinking about this trip.”

“That's absurd. I can hardly think about anything else.”

“Rest my case.”

He poured Scotch for another customer. Daphne recognized it as an expensive brand and wondered if a movie star was in the house, incognito. A fun thought. Marty would never tell her. He disappeared to deliver the drink. She resisted gulping her martini. She was in the mood to be reckless. She was reconsidering Knights Bridge. She couldn't deny it, and it wasn't anyone's fault. Picking a fight with Marty wasn't fair.

He returned with a small tray with cheese, grapes, figs and nuts. “You look glum,” he said, setting the tray in front of her.

“I am glum.” She nibbled on a fig. “It's stupid, wasting time on being glum when nothing's wrong. No one's died. I haven't been fired. I'm not facing a dreaded diagnosis.”

“I thought you were excited about exploring new opportunities with these theater twins.”

“They're fraternal, not identical, twins. I am excited about new opportunities. I just don't necessarily want them to require my presence in Knights Bridge.” Daphne paused, barely aware she was speaking out loud. “My great-great-grandfather left a positive legacy there. I went there as this miserable, abused girl who ran away from home. I would see his portrait every time I went up to my attic room. I'd talk to him. He'd been dead for decades, but it felt like he was with me.”

“He helped give you the courage to go after your dreams,” Marty said, matter-of-fact.

She looked up at him and smiled. “That's exactly right.”

“You don't have to go back there. As I said, this class isn't a prison sentence. You can cancel. You're a pro. You could pull off canceling and not look bad.”

She sighed and reached for two perfect red grapes. “Tell your brother that.”

Marty laughed. “I don't tell Russ anything.”

“I can believe that. What will I do when Julius moves to La Jolla? He's like a neighbor. I meet him on his deck for coffee from time to time. He has a great deck. I don't think Loretta has a place for all his plants.” She ate the grapes as Marty waited on another customer. No expensive Scotch this time, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. When he returned, she completed her train of thought. “I can't believe Julius wants to give up Hollywood Hills and his life here, even for Loretta. Do you think he has doubts, Marty?”

“I haven't noticed any.”

“I imagine Loretta has a beautiful home.” Daphne snorted. “Julius said I can come down and visit. Take a few days and laze by the pool. Visit the zoo. Sounds dreadful, doesn't it?”

Marty mopped up a spill. “You just don't like change.”

“Change is a part of life,” she countered, defiant.

“Knowing that doesn't mean you like it. You've had Julius doing your bidding for ten years. Time for new blood.”

“Russ thinks I'm eccentric and dramatic.”

Marty grinned. “You are eccentric and dramatic.”

Daphne took no offense. “He assumes nobody wants to harass or do harm to a mere costume designer.”

“Russ doesn't make assumptions.”

“Isn't a threat assessment a glorified assumption?”

“It's a professional tool to understand risk—”

“Right, right.” She waved a hand. “I get all that.”

Daphne didn't know what to do to dissipate her nervous energy. Probably two French martinis weren't helping. Knights Bridge. What had she been thinking? She should have let the fashion show last September be enough. Going back a second time was tempting fate. With the date drawing closer and closer, she could feel her anxiety mounting.

“I have a dark past back East,” she said half to herself. “It's a personal can of worms I shut a long time ago.”

“I get that,” Marty said, no hint of impatience in his tone.

“Does Russ get it?”

“Does it matter?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “You aren't going to give me platitudes?”

“I don't know what a platitude is anymore.”

“I've dealt with too many narcissistic types. I don't want to become one myself.” She frowned at him. “I haven't, have I?”

“It's easy to stereotype people.”

“I've been thinking about my father a lot these days. George Sanderson was by all accounts a decent man with a good head for business and a good heart for philanthropy. My father was named after him. Another George. But any resemblance ended there.” She chose a fat cashew from the little bowl of nuts. “My father was a bastard, Marty.”

“No doubt.”

“But he's dead, and I found my way here.” She ate the cashew and stared at her hands, the skin tanned, an expensive sapphire-and-diamond ring on her right ring finger. She noticed age spots. Heavens. She was getting up there in age, wasn't she? When had that happened? Finally she looked at Marty Colton again. “You're not as old as I am, darling Marty.”

He grinned. “Dirt's not as old as you are.”

She laughed. She wasn't ready to go home yet, but she'd had enough to drink. Three martinis would put her to sleep or, worse, drive her to tears or dancing on the tables. She ordered sparkling water instead.

And that, naturally, was the moment Julius Hartley walked into the bar.

“Sparkling water,” he said, easing onto the stool next to her. “That means you're either half in the bag or wish you were.”

She sniffed. “Neither. I'm rehydrating. Are you hunting me down, Mr. Hartley?”

“Not hard to do.”

“Marty and I were just discussing age and true love. You're not young, but Loretta...she's your true love?”