The Sweetheart Secret (22 page)

Maybe Daisy had been the one too busy condemning Willow's actions to notice when her mother actually did do her best to raise a responsible daughter. “I am very, very sorry, Mrs. Mellon,” Daisy said again. “I know that doesn't make up for everything, but I hope you accept my apology, even though it is late.”

Jane leaned in, her eyes narrowed and her face pinched. There was no forgiveness in her features. “Weren't you the one who ran off with Colt Harper, too? I remember the town was all abuzz, about you two dating, then about him running away on that motorcycle. And after what happened to his little brother . . .”

“His little brother?”

Henry?

Dread filled Daisy's chest.
After what happened
. Those words were never followed by anything good.

Like gears shifting into place, the silences, the troubled sighs, the sentences left unfinished, all clicked together in one horrible picture.

“What happened to him?” Daisy asked, praying, praying so hard, that the answer was anything but—

“Oh, don't play innocent. You know he died.”

“Died?” Even though her heart had known the truth before Jane spoke, the word hit Daisy like a brick. Henry? That sweet little boy?
Died?
“But how . . . when?”

Jane ignored her and barreled on, her voice laced with sarcasm, anger. “Such an awful tragedy, too. People talked about it for years. And it all would have been avoided, they say, if Colt had been here.”

If Colt had been here? “I don't understand. Henry worshipped him,” Daisy said in a soft, small voice. “He followed Colt everywhere. He used to call him his shadow. He never would have let anything happen to Henry.”

Died.

No wonder Colt hadn't said anything. No wonder there was that pall of emptiness hanging over Colt's house, over his relationship with his grandfather, over every conversation.

“I . . . I didn't know.”

“Don't bullshit me. Of course you knew. You were his girlfriend.”

Wife,
Daisy started to correct, then stopped herself. She was never really Colt's wife, not in the true sense of the word. Never a partner in anything but irresponsibility. For years, that had never bothered her. She'd never worried about being accountable, about what people thought of her. But now, standing beneath Jane Mellon's scathing glare, Daisy did care.

Because if she'd truly been Colt's wife, if he had truly loved her, he would have told her. And she, in turn, would have been there for him.

“I'm sorry,” Daisy said.

“I don't care.” Jane flung the business card at the table. It pinged off the champagne glasses and fluttered to the ground. “Why are you even here in this town? Haven't you done enough damage for one lifetime?”

Jane stomped away. The wind caught Daisy's card and tumbleweeded it across the grassy lawn, around the corner, and finally, out of sight.

Earl stood to the side of the festival, the dog by his side. Funny thing about a dog. It provided friendship, without demanding much in return. A man could while away the hours with a dog, not having to say or do a thing. Major just waited, turning his head from time to time to look up at Earl, as if to say,
We staying put? Or moving on?
Every so often, Earl would give the dog a pat of reassurance, then Major would go back to waiting. Patient and loyal.

Across the way, Earl saw Walt Patterson and Harold Twohig enter the park. The two men were laughing at something. Earl took a step forward, then stopped himself. If he went over and talked to the guys, they'd ask him why he wasn't coming to their card games anymore, and he'd have to explain himself.

Earl was in no mood to explain. The trouble was, he missed his friends. Missed their camaraderie, and their terrible card playing. But he wasn't about to go back to that old folks' home and listen to everyone whining about their bum hips and worn-out tickers. All it did was remind him of his own worn-out ticker, and he had enough reminders of his mortality when his joints staged a mutiny every morning.

Earl's gaze lingered on Pauline, who was standing under the shade of a tree, sipping lemonade. She had on sunglasses, which hid her pretty green eyes from his view. She turned toward him, flashed him a smile, and he gave her a half nod in return. Major looked up at him, as if saying,
That's it? That's all you got, old man?

“It's complicated,” Earl said to the dog. “And it's all because of that damned Walt Patterson.”

Major wagged his tail.

“No, I'm not going to forgive him for stealing Pauline out from under my nose.”

Major barked, got to his feet, his tail wagging at a furious pace.

Earl sighed. “You are a stubborn dog.”

Major cocked his head, as if saying,
Look in the mirror, mister.

Greta Winslow passed by Walt and Harold, ignoring Harold's how-do-you-do. Greta kept right on trucking, with Esther and Pauline flanking her on either side. Walt and Harold brought up the rear, with Walt stopping Pauline to talk to her, aside from the others. Damn that Walt Patterson. Man claimed to be his friend, when really, he was just a wolf.

Earl made a little
ch-ch
sound, and Major snapped to his feet, tail wagging, ready to go wherever Earl went. He didn't go far, just a few feet to the right, to the cookie table. He might not feel like socializing, but he sure as shooting felt like eating cookies.

It was merely a coincidence that the ladies had also ended up at the same table. He had a chocolate chip halfway to his mouth when Pauline came up beside him.

“Morning, Earl.”

He gave her a little nod. “Morning, Pauline.” He tried to work up something a little more conversational, but all Earl could see in his mind was Walt Patterson, the damned fool, grinning and whispering in Pauline's ear.

She hovered over the cookie display, debating between a peanut butter cookie and a frosted sugar one. “Nice day for a festival.”

“It's Florida.” He harrumphed. “It's always a nice day for a festival.”

She slid into the space between him and the cookies, and put her hands on her hips. “Who threw mud in your eye today? You're a grump and a half. Which I'd say is normal, except today you have that extra half a grump.”

“Go talk to Walt Patterson.” Earl nodded in the direction of his former best friend. “He's always got a sunny disposition.”

Pauline snorted. “Is that what this is about? I compliment Walt and suddenly, you and I are enemies?”

“You didn't just compliment Walt, from what I heard.”

Crimson filled Pauline's cheeks. Regret filled Earl's gut.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have said that,” he said. “I was out of line.”

“Yes you were. And for your information, what I do or don't do with Walt Patterson is my personal choice. Last I checked, you and I weren't anything more than friends.”

“Friends?” He scoffed and looked away before she read anything else in his face. One would think at his age that he wouldn't get so discombobulated by a woman, but blast it all, every time he got around Pauline, he was a sixteen-year-old stumbling fool all over again. “You're blocking the cookies, Pauline.”

“Earl Harper, you are a stubborn man. Fine. Have your cookies. I hope they keep you warm at night.” Pauline walked away, with a determined, unhurried step. Earl turned away before he saw if Walt caught up to Pauline.

The festival began to wind to a close. Vendors packed up their booths, families gathered their children and headed out of the park. Earl snagged one last cookie from the booth, then grabbed Major's leash and walked over to Daisy's booth.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“Just peachy.” He wasn't about to explain about Walt and Pauline and the little soap opera in his life. All that did was give him indigestion anyway.

She stacked the brochures in a pile and wrapped a rubber band around them, then did the same with her business cards. “Emma and I were going to go get some dinner. Maybe some takeout, since it's getting late. Do you want to go with us?”

Earl had done enough socializing for the day. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to be anywhere. He wanted to be alone. “Some of the guys invited me to a card game,” Earl said, and instantly felt bad for lying to Daisy. “I'm going to go there, and catch up with you later.”

“Are you sure you don't need a ride? Do you want me to pick you up later?”

“No, no, I'm fine.” He even put on a smile, to give his words a little extra believability.

“Okay. Well, have fun.” Daisy turned back to talk to someone who had stopped at her table, and Earl walked out of the park.

Just him and the dog. And a whole lot of regrets and heartache that hung heavy on his shoulders, like a winter coat on a summer day.

*   *   *

The festival wound to a close. Still no Colt. It was Sunday, for Pete's sake. Where could he be all day? Daisy told herself she didn't care that he'd let her down, that he avoided all the family outings she planned. Colt kept saying he wanted one thing—a family, relationships—and did everything to work against that. That was what she needed to remember every time she got swayed by a kiss or a late-night conversation with him.

“I can take this stuff back to the inn,” Emma said, lifting the box of cards and brochures and wine glasses.

“Thanks. You want me to pick up some food and meet you over there?” Daisy said. “Chinese? Pizza?”

“I . . . have a headache. I think I'm just going to get something at a drive-thru and turn in early. Sorry.”

Emma's happy, light mood from earlier had evaporated, and her face had gone back to being troubled, her green eyes filled with sadness. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it's just been a long day.”

“Okay.” Daisy gave Emma a quick hug. “Call me if you need anything, and thanks again for helping today.”

Emma headed out of the park and Daisy picked up the few pieces of trash that littered the ground near her feet. Except for the encounter with Jane Mellon, the festival seemed to have been a success for the Hideaway Inn. They had several people interested in future events, and three appointments to meet with possible customers next week. All good signs for the future of the inn.

The encounter with Jane had left Daisy shaken. Maybe staying here, where her past mistakes would haunt her, wasn't such a good idea.

It was more than that. It was the hurt that had washed over her when she'd realized Colt had kept Henry's death from her. Hadn't he realized that she had cared about Henry, too?

Mike Stark crossed the park toward her. “Hey, need some help with the table? I can take it down and bring it back to Olivia's shelter for you. I have a truck.”

“Definitely. Thank you. I appreciate it.” Daisy ran a hand through her hair, then scanned the park entrance again, but no one came through the gate. Disappointment washed over her. “I was hoping Colt would be here to help Emma and me clean up, but he never showed.”

Mike gave her a quizzical look. “He said he'd come to this?”

“Well, not in so many words, no, but I thought since it was Sunday, and he had nothing to do—”

“What do you mean?” Again, the confusion on Mike's face. “He's busy every Sunday.”

“No. He has Sunday off. Sometimes he does rounds on Saturdays, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What do you know that I don't?”

Mike hesitated, then let out a breath. “Listen, I have to head over there anyway. Let me just load up the table, then we'll go.”

She touched his hand to stop him. “Go where?”

“You'll see. It'll make sense later.” Mike broke down the table and carried it to the bed of his truck. Daisy followed, trying not to show how hurt she was that Colt had kept a secret from her. They weren't really married, and never really had been, so his life was his own. It shouldn't bother her that he went other places or saw other people. But it did because today had hammered home once again how she lived on the periphery of Colt's life. And maybe always would.

A half hour later, Daisy sat in the passenger's side of Mike's pickup truck, with his daughter Ellie between them, as they rode out of Rescue Bay. Ellie chattered a mile a minute, about kittens and horses and dogs and pretty much anything that popped into her head. She was an adorable four-year-old, but Daisy's mind was on where they were going.

And what she'd find there. Mike hadn't explained and she hadn't pressed him. Daisy wasn't so sure she wanted to know.

The sun was just starting to kiss the tops of the trees when Mike pulled off the main road and headed down a worn, rutted road. The road curved to the left, then ended in a dirt-packed circle, right beside a beautiful lake that spread out like a deep, dark blue blanket. A few boats bobbed on the placid water. A heron flapped his wings and made a graceful exit from one side of the lake to the other.

The three of them climbed out of the truck just as Mike's other daughter, Jenny, came running up to the truck. Her muddy jeans and T-shirt were topped by a ball cap that said
HOOK, LINE AND THINKER CLUB
. “Daddy, I caught three fish today!”

“Awesome, Jelly Bean. You're turning into quite the fisherman.” Mike ruffled his daughter's hair, then turned to Daisy. “I suspect you'll find Colt right down there. He comes here every Sunday, runs a fishing group for kids. Teaches them all about water safety, and how to bait a hook. It's all catch and release, which teaches the kids to respect the water, and the creatures who call it home.”

She would have been less shocked to hear Colt was jetting off to Mars on the weekends. Of all the things she imagined him doing on Sundays, this didn't even make the list. “He does?”

“Yup. Been doing it for years now.” Mike pointed at a well-worn path that wound between the trees and down to the water. Colt's car was parked beside the path.

Daisy thanked Mike, then headed in the direction he had pointed. Behind her, she heard Mike start up his truck and head down the road. Quiet descended over the woods, broken only by the rustling of some squirrels and the occasional chirp of a bird.

She grabbed a sapling to steady her steps as she climbed down the embankment, her shoes skidding a little on the smooth path. At the bottom of the hill, Colt sat on a stump, his back to her, a fishing pole propped against a nearby tree. A matching cap to Jenny's hung from the handle of a pale blue tackle box.

“Colt?”

He turned at the sound of her voice. Surprise filled his face. “How did you find me?”

“Mike brought me here.”

Colt scowled, then turned back to the lake. “You might as well catch a ride back with him. I'm not leaving yet.”

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. “I'm not going anywhere. And Mike already left.”

“Fine.” Colt cursed. “I'll drive you home.”

He started to get up, but she stepped in front of him and put up a hand. “No. Not until you tell me why you lied to me about where you've been every Sunday.”

“I didn't lie to you. I just . . . chose not to provide details.”

“Why? What are you doing? Illegally poaching fish or something?”

He shook his head. A slight smile flickered on his face for a moment before it was gone. “You can't poach fish, Daisy. And it's nothing illegal. Just not something I want to talk about.”

She wasn't going to be swayed by his smiles or his attempts to deflect the question. In all the time they had been together, the two of them had never done much talking. A lot of sex, but not a lot of conversations deeper than
What do you want for dinner
. Even now, when she was living in his house, taking care of his grandfather, their conversations had been mostly superficial. Coming here and finding out Colt was running a fishing club—something that he could have told her—made it clear that he didn't want to include her in his life. He hadn't even told her about his brother, never even mentioned it, and she wondered if any part of their relationship had been real. “Well, I'm sick and tired of you and your grandpa and everyone I know not wanting to talk about what hell is bothering them.”