The Welcoming (14 page)

“Sit down.”

Something in his tone sent a frisson of alarm down her spine. He was going to tell her he was leaving, she thought. “All right.” She clasped her hands together, promising herself she'd find a way to make him stay.

“I haven't been fair with you.” He leaned back against a rock. “Fairness hasn't been one of my priorities. There are things about me you should know, that you should have known before things got this far.”

“Roman—”

“It won't take long. I did come from St. Louis. I lived in a kind of neighborhood you wouldn't even understand. Drugs, whores, Saturday night specials.” He looked out at the water. The spiffy little sailboat had caught the wind. “A long way from here, baby.”

So the trust had come, she thought. She wouldn't let him regret it. “It doesn't matter where you came from, Roman. It's where you are now.”

“That's not always true. Part of where you come from stays with you.” He closed a hand over hers briefly, then released it. It would be better, he thought, to break the contact now. “When he was sober enough, my father drove a cab. When he wasn't sober enough, he sat around the apartment with his head in his hands. One of my first memories is waking up at night hearing my mother screaming at him. Every couple of months she'd threaten to leave. Then he'd straighten up. We'd live in the eye of the hurricane until he'd stop off at the bar to have a drink. So she finally stopped threatening and did it.”

“Where did you go?”

“I said she left.”

“But . . . didn't she take you with her?”

“I guess she figured she was going to have it rough enough without dealing with a ten-year-old.”

Charity shook her head and struggled with a deep, churning anger. It was hard for her to understand how a mother could desert her child. “She must have been very confused and frightened. Once she—”

“I never saw her again,” Roman said. “You have to understand that not everyone loves unconditionally. Not everyone loves at all.”

“Oh, Roman.” She wanted to gather him close then, but he held her away from him.

“I stayed with my father another three years. One night he hit the gin before he got in the cab. He killed himself and his passenger.”

“Oh, God.” She reached for him, but he shook his head.

“That made me a ward of the court. I didn't much care for that, so I took off, hit the streets.”

She was reeling from what he'd already told her, and she could barely take it all in. “At thirteen?”

“I'd been living there most of my life anyway.”

“But how?”

He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lighting it and drawing deep before he spoke again. “I took odd jobs when I could find them. I stole when I couldn't. After a couple of years I got good enough at the stealing that I didn't bother much with straight jobs. I broke into houses, hot-wired cars, snatched purses. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“Yes. You were alone and desperate.”

“I was a thief. Damn it, Charity, I wasn't some poor misguided youth. I stopped being a kid when I came home and found my father passed out and my mother gone. I knew what I was doing. I chose to do it.”

She kept her eyes level with his, battling the need to take him in her arms. “If you expect me to condemn a child for finding a way to survive, I'll have to disappoint you.”

She was romanticizing, he told himself, pitching his cigarette into the water.

“Do you still steal?”

“What if I told you I did?”

“I'd have to say you were stupid. You don't seem stupid to me, Roman.”

He paused for a moment before he decided to tell her the rest. “I was in Chicago. I'd just turned sixteen. It was January, so cold your eyes couldn't water. I decided I needed to score enough to take a bus south. Thought I'd winter in Florida and fleece the rich tourists. That's when I met John Brody. I broke into his apartment and ended up with a .45 in my face. He was a cop.” The memory of that moment still made him laugh. “I don't know who was more surprised. He gave me three choices. One, he could turn me over to Juvie. Two, he could beat the hell out of me. Three, he could give me something to eat.”

“What did you do?”

“It's hard to play it tough when a two-hundred-pound man's pointing a .45 at your belt. I ate a can of soup. He let me sleep on the couch.” Looking back, he could still see himself, skinny and full of bitterness, lying wakeful on the lumpy sofa.

“I kept telling myself I was going to rip off whatever I could and take off. But I never did. I used to tell myself he was a stupid bleeding heart, and that once it warmed up I'd split with whatever I could carry. The next thing I knew I was going to school.” Roman paused a moment to look up at the sky. “He used to build things down in the basement of the building. He taught me how to use a hammer.”

“He must have been quite a man.”

“He was only twenty-five when I met him. He'd grown up on the South Side, running with the gangs. At some point he turned it around. Then he decided to turn me around. In some ways he did. When he got married a couple of years later he bought this old run-down house in the suburbs. We fixed it up room by room. He used to tell me there was nothing he liked better than living in a construction zone. We were adding on another room—it was going to be his workshop—when he was killed. Line of duty. He was thirty-two. He left a three-year-old son and a pregnant widow.”

“Roman, I'm sorry.” She moved to him and took his hands.

“It killed something in me, Charity. I've never been able to get it back.”

“I understand.” He started to pull away, but she held him fast. “I do. When you lose someone who was that much a part of your life, something's always going to be missing. I still think about Pop all the time. It still makes me sad. Sometimes it just makes me angry, because there was so much more I wanted to say to him.”

“You're leaving out pieces. Look at what I was, where I came from. I was a thief.”

“You were a child.”

He took her shoulders and shook her. “My father was a drunk.”

“I don't even know who my father was. Should I be ashamed of that?”

“It doesn't matter to you, does it? Where I've been, what I've done?”

“Not very much. I'm more interested in what you are now.”

He couldn't tell her what he was. Not yet. For her own safety, he had to continue the deception for a few more days. But there was something he could tell her. Like the story he had just recounted, it was something he had never told anyone else.

“I love you.”

Her hands went slack on his. Her eyes grew huge. “Would you—” She paused long enough to take a deep breath. “Would you say that again?”

“I love you.”

With a muffled sob, she launched herself into his arms. She wasn't going to cry, she told herself, squeezing her eyes tight against the threatening tears. She wouldn't be red-eyed and weepy at this, the most beautiful and exciting moment of her life.

“Just hold me a moment, okay?” Overwhelmed, she pressed her face into his shoulder. “I can't believe this is happening.”

“That makes two of us.” But he was smiling. He could feel the stunned delight coil through him as he stroked her hair. It hadn't been so hard to say, he realized. In fact, he could easily get used to saying it several times a day.

“A week ago I didn't even know you.” She tilted her head back until her lips met his. “Now I can't imagine my life without you.”

“Don't. You might change your mind.”

“Not a chance.”

“Promise.” Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of urgency, he gripped her hands. “I want you to make that a promise.”

“All right. I promise. I won't change my mind about being in love with you.”

“I'm holding you to that, Charity.” He swooped her against him, then drained even happy thoughts from her mind. “Will you marry me?”

She jerked back, gaped, then sat down hard. “What?
What?
”

“I want you to marry me—now, today.” It was crazy, and he knew it. It was wrong. Yet, as he pulled her up again, he knew he had to find a way to keep her. “You must know somebody, a minister, a justice of the peace, who could do it.”

“Well, yes, but . . .” She held a hand to her spinning head. “There's paperwork, and licenses. God, I can't think.”

“Don't think. Just say you will.”

“Of course I will, but—”

“No buts.” He crushed his mouth to hers. “I want you to belong to me. God, I need to belong to you. Do you believe that?”

“Yes.” Breathless, she touched a hand to his cheek. “Roman, we're talking about marriage, a lifetime. I only intend to do this once.” She dragged a hand through her hair and sat down again. “I guess everyone says that, but I need to believe it. It has to start off with more than a few words in front of an official. Wait, please,” she said before he could speak again. “You've really thrown me off here, and I want to make you understand. I love you, and I can't think of anything I want more than to belong to you. When I marry you it has to be more than rushing to the J.P. and saying I do. I don't have to have a big, splashy wedding, either. It's not a matter of long white trains and engraved invitations.”

“Then what is it?”

“I want flowers and music, Roman. And friends.” She took his face in her hands, willing him to understand. “I want to stand beside you knowing I look beautiful, so that everyone can see how proud I am to be your wife. If that sounds overly romantic, well, it should be.”

“How long do you need?”

“Can I have two weeks?”

He was afraid to give her two days. But it was for the best, he told himself. He would never be able to hold her if there were still lies between them. “I'll give you two weeks, if you'll go away with me afterward.”

“Where?”

“Leave it to me.”

“I love surprises.” Her lips curved against his. “And you . . . you're the biggest surprise so far.”

“Two weeks.” He took her hands firmly in his. “No matter what happens.”

“You make it sound as though we might have to overcome a natural disaster in the meantime. I'm only going to take a few days to make it right.” She brushed a kiss over his cheek and smiled again. “It will be right, Roman, for both of us. That's another promise. I'd like that champagne now.”

She took out the glasses while he retrieved the bottle from the water. As they sat together on the blanket, he released the cork with a pop and a hiss.

“To new beginnings,” she said, touching her glass to his.

He wanted to believe it could happen. “I'll make you happy, Charity.”

“You already have.” She shifted so that she was cuddled against him, her head on his shoulder. “This is the best picnic I've ever had.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You haven't eaten anything yet.”

“Who needs food?” With a sigh, she reached up. He linked his hand with hers, and they both looked out toward the horizon.

Chapter 10

Check-in on Tuesday was as chaotic as it came. Charity barreled her way through it, assigning rooms and cabins, answering questions, finding a spare cookie for a cranky toddler, and waited for the first rush to pass.

She was the first to admit that she usually thrived on the noise, the problems and the healthy press of people that proved the inn's success. At the moment, though, she would have liked nothing better than having everyone, and everything settled.

It was hard to keep her mind on the business at hand when her head was full of plans for her wedding.

Should she have Chopin or Beethoven? She'd barely begun her list of possible selections. Would the weather hold so that they could have the ceremony in the gardens, or would it be best to plan an intimate and cozy wedding in the gathering room?

“Yes, sir, I'll be glad to give you information on renting bikes.” She snatched up a pamphlet.

When was she going to find an afternoon free so that she could choose the right dress? It
had
to be the right dress, the perfect dress. Something ankle-length, with some romantic touches of lace. There was a boutique in Eastsound that specialized in antique clothing. If she could just—

“Aren't you going to sign that?”

“Sorry, Roger.” Charity pulled herself back and offered him an apologetic smile. “I don't seem to be all here this morning.”

“No problem.” He patted her hand as she signed his roster. “Spring fever?”

“You could call it that.” She tossed back her hair, annoyed that she hadn't remembered to braid it that morning. As long as she was smelling orange blossoms she'd be lucky to remember her own name. “We're a little behind. The computer's acting up again. Poor Bob's been fighting with it since yesterday.”

“Looks like you've been in a fight yourself.”

She lifted a hand to the healing cut on her temple. “I had a little accident last week.”

“Nothing serious?”

“No, just inconvenient, really. Some idiot joyriding nearly ran me down.”

“That's terrible.” Watching her carefully, he pulled his face into stern lines. “Were you badly hurt?”

“No, no stitches, but a medley of bruises. Scared me more than anything.”

“I can imagine. You don't expect something like that around here. I hope they caught him.”

“No, not yet.” Because she'd already put the incident behind her, she gave a careless shrug. “To tell you the truth, I doubt they ever will. I imagine he got off the island as soon as he sobered up.”

“Drunk drivers.” Block made a sound of disgust. “Well, you've got a right to be distracted after something like that.”

“Actually, I've got a much more pleasant reason. I'm getting married in a couple of weeks.”

“You don't say!” His face split into a wide grin. “Who's the lucky man?”

“Roman DeWinter. I don't know if you met him. He's doing some remodeling upstairs.”

“That's handy now, isn't it?” He continued to grin. The romance explained a lot. One look at Charity's face settled any lingering doubts. Block decided he'd have to have a nice long talk with Bob about jumping the gun. “Is he from around here?”

“No, he's from St. Louis, actually.”

“Well, I hope he's not going to take you away from us.”

“You know I'd never leave the inn, Roger.” Her smile faded a bit. That was something she and Roman had never spoken of. “In any case, I promise to keep my mind on my work. You've got six people who want to rent boats.” She took a quick look at her watch. “I can have them taken to the marina by noon.”

“I'll round them up.”

The door to the inn opened, and Charity glanced over. She saw a small, spare man with well-cut auburn hair, wearing a crisp sport shirt. He carried one small leather bag.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He took a brief study of the lobby as he crossed to the desk. “Conby, Richard Conby. I believe I have a reservation.”

“Yes, Mr. Conby. We're expecting you.” Charity shuffled through the papers on the desk and sent up a quick prayer that Bob would have the computer humming along by the end of the day. “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful.” He signed the register, listing his address as Seattle. Charity found herself both amused and impressed by his careful manicure. “I was told your inn is quiet, restful. I'm looking forward to relaxing for a day or two.”

“I'm sure you'll find the inn very relaxing.” She opened a drawer to choose a key. “Either Roman or I will drive your group to the marina, Roger. Have them in the parking lot at noon.”

“Will do.” With a cheerful wave, he sauntered off.

“I'll be happy to show you to your room, Mr. Conby. If you have any questions about the inn, or the island, feel free to ask me or any of the staff.” She came around the desk and led the way to the stairs.

“Oh, I will,” Conby said, following her. “I certainly will.”

***

At precisely 12:05, Conby heard a knock and opened his door. “Prompt as always, DeWinter.” He scanned down to Roman's tool belt. “Keeping busy, I see.”

“Dupont's in cabin 3.”

Conby decided to drop the sarcasm. This was a big one, much too big for him to let his personal feelings interfere. “You made a positive ID?”

“I helped him carry his bags.”

“Very good.” Satisfied, Conby finished arranging his ebony-handled clothes brush and shoe horn on the oak dresser. “We'll move in as planned on Thursday morning and take him before we close in on Block.”

“What about the driver of the car who tried to kill Charity?”

Always fastidious, Conby walked into the adjoining bath to wash his hands. “You're inordinately interested in a small-time hood.”

“Did you get a confession?”

“Yes.” Conby unfolded a white hand towel bordered with flowers. “He admitted to meeting with Block last week and taking five thousand to—to put Miss Ford out of the picture. A very minor sum for a hit.” His hands dry, Conby tossed the towel over the lip of the sink before walking back into the bedroom. “If Block had been more discerning, he might have had more success.”

Taking him by the collar, Roman lifted Conby to his toes. “Watch your step,” he said softly.

“It's more to the point for me to tell you to watch yours.” Conby pulled himself free and straightened his shirt. In the five years since he had taken over as Roman's superior he had found Roman's methods crude and his attitude arrogant. The pity was, his results were invariably excellent. “You're losing your focus on this one, Agent DeWinter.”

“No. It's taken me a while—maybe too long—but I'm focused just fine. You've got enough on Block to pin him with conspiracy to murder. Dupont's practically tied up with a bow. Why wait?”

“I won't bother to remind you who's in charge of this case.”

“We both know who's in charge, Conby, but there's a difference between sitting behind a desk and calling the shots in the field. If we take them now, quietly, there's less risk of endangering innocent people.”

“I have no intention of endangering any of the guests. Or the staff,” he added, thinking he knew where Roman's mind was centered. “I have my orders on this, just as you do.” He took a fresh handkerchief out of his drawer. “Since it's apparently so important to you, I'll tell you that we want to nail Block when he passes the money. We're working with the Canadian authorities on this, and that's the way we'll proceed. As for the conspiracy charges, we have the word of a bargain-basement hit man. It may take a bit more to make it stick.”

“You'll make it stick. How many have we got?”

“We have two agents checking in tomorrow, and two more as backup. We'll take Dupont in his cabin, and Block in the lobby. Moving on Dupont any earlier would undoubtedly tip off Block. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Since you've filled me in on the checkout procedures, it should go very smoothly.”

“It better. If anything happens to her—anything—I'm holding you responsible.”

***

Charity dashed into the kitchen with a loaded tray. “I don't know how things can get out of hand so fast. When have you ever known us to have a full house on a Wednesday night?” she asked the room at large, whipping out her pad. “Two specials with wild rice, one with baked potato, hold the sour cream, and one child's portion of ribs with fries.” She rushed over to get the drinks herself.

“Take it easy, girl,” Mae advised her. “They ain't going anywhere till they eat.”

“That's the problem.” She loaded up the tray. “What a time for Lori to get sick. The way this virus is bouncing around, we're lucky to have a waitress still standing. Whoops!” She backed up to keep from running into Roman. “Sorry.”

“Need a hand?”

“I need two.” She smiled and took the time to lean over the tray and kiss him. “You seem to have them. Those salads Dolores is fixing go to table 5.”

“Girl makes me tired just looking at her,” Mae commented as she filleted a trout. She lifted her head just long enough for her eyes to meet Roman's. “Seems to me she rushes into everything.”

“Four house salads.” Dolores was humming the “Wedding March” as she passed him a tray. “Looks like you didn't need that dynamite after all.” Cackling, she went back to fill the next order.

Five minutes later he passed Charity in the doorway again. “Strange bunch tonight,” she murmured.

“How so?”

“There's a man at table 2. He's so jumpy you'd think he'd robbed a bank or something. Then there's a couple at table 8, supposed to be on a second honeymoon. They're spending more time looking at everyone else than each other.”

Roman said nothing. She'd made both Dupont and two of Conby's agents in less than thirty minutes.

“And then there's this little man in a three-piece suit sitting at 4. Suit and tie,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. “Came here to relax, he says. Who can relax in a three-piece suit?” Shifting, she balanced the tray on her hip. “Claims to be from Seattle and has an Eastern accent that could cut Mae's apple pie. Looks like a weasel.”

“You think so?” Roman allowed himself a small smile at her description of Conby.

“A very well-groomed weasel,” she added. “Check it out for yourself.” With a small shudder, she headed toward the dining room again. “Anyone that smooth gives me the creeps.”

Duty was duty though, and the weasel was sitting at her station. “Are you ready to order?” she asked Conby with a bright smile.

He took a last sip of his vodka martini. It was passable, he supposed. “The menu claims the trout is fresh.”

“Yes, sir.” She was particularly proud of that. The stocked pond had been her idea. “It certainly is.”

“Fresh when it was shipped in this morning, no doubt.”

“No.” Charity lowered her pad but kept her smile in place. “We stock our own right here at the inn.”

Lifting a brow, he tapped a finger against his empty glass. “Your fish may be superior to your vodka, but I have my doubts as to whether it is indeed fresh. Nonetheless, it appears to be the most interesting item on your menu, so I shall have to make do.”

“The fish,” Charity repeated, with what she considered admirable calm, “is fresh.”

“I'm sure you consider it so. However, your conception of fresh and mine may differ.”

“Yes, sir.” She shoved the pad into her pocket. “If you'll excuse me a moment.”

She might be innocent, Conby thought, frowning at his empty glass, but she was hardly efficient.

“Where's the fire?” Mae wanted to know when Charity burst into the kitchen.

“In my brain.” She stopped a moment, hands on hips. “That—that insulting pipsqueak out there tells me our vodka's below standard, our menu's dull and our fish isn't fresh.”

“A dull menu.” Mae bristled down to her crepe-soled shoes. “What did he eat?”

“He hasn't eaten anything yet. One drink and a couple of crackers with salmon dip and he's a restaurant critic.”

Charity took a turn around the kitchen, struggling with her temper. No urban wonder was going to stroll into her inn and pick it apart. Her bar was as good as any on the island, her restaurant had a triple-A rating, and her fish—

“Guy at table 4 wants another vodka martini,” Roman announced as he carried in a loaded tray.

“Does he?” Charity whirled around. “Does he really?”

He couldn't recall ever seeing quite that glint in her eye. “That's right,” he said cautiously.

“Well, I have something else to get him first.” So saying, she strode into the utility room and then out again.

“Uh-oh,” Dolores mumbled.

“Did I miss something?” Roman asked.

“Man's got a nerve saying the food's dull before he's even had a taste of it.” Scowling, Mae scooped a helping of wild asparagus onto a plate. “I've a mind to add some curry to his entrée. A nice fat handful of it. We'll see about dull.”

They all turned around when Charity strolled back in. She was still carrying the platter. On it flopped a very confused trout.

“My.” Dolores covered her mouth with both hands, giggling. “Oh, my.”

Grinning, Mae went back to her stove.

“Charity.” Roman made a grab for her arm, but she evaded him and glided through the doorway. Shaking his head, he followed her.

A few of the diners looked up and stared as she carried the thrashing fish across the room. Weaving through the tables, she crossed to table 4 and held the tray under Conby's nose.

“Your trout, sir.” She dropped the platter unceremoniously in front of him. “Fresh enough?” she asked with a small, polite smile.

In the archway Roman tucked his hands into his pockets and roared. He would have traded a year's salary for a photo of the expression on Conby's face as he and the fish gaped at each other.