“I’m far too normal.”

“Outwardly, perhaps.” Connor’s eyes darkened. “Except I’ve already figured you out. You’re a happy, singsong Marian the Librarian to all appearances, but inside, beneath the cocoon of small-town life, is another person waiting to burst free. Like a butterfly.”

The muscles in Tess’s stomach clutched, even though he was getting carried away. She really was the nice, normal person she claimed. She didn’t need to be set free.

From what? she silently scoffed. Her life was her own. Entirely her own.

“Well, Connor, that sounds nice, it really does. But on the other hand, I’m pretty certain that you just called me a caterpillar.”

He smiled, but his gaze was even deeper and softer than before. It enfolded her. “By any other name…”

Dear Reader,

Hello from the North Country!

As I’m writing this letter, it’s a beautiful summer day with breezes playing through the trees and sunshine glittering on the lake. But by the time you read this, I'll be plunged into the dead of winter with snowdrifts up to my eyeballs. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is a land of extremes, where only the tough survive—as long as the tough have a good heating system and a snow shovel.

In this story, the second in my NORTH COUNTRY STORIES miniseries, Connor Reed comes to the wilderness to escape his notoriety as a true crime writer. Is there anywhere more remote or romantic to escape to than a lighthouse, seemingly at the edge of the world? Small-town librarian Tess Bucek is certainly intrigued by the stranger in town, and it’s not long before truths of the heart are revealed….

Look for my next NORTH COUNTRY book in November of this year. And please visit my Web site at www.carriealexander.com for news of future books, contests and “North Country” photos and map.

Sincerely,

Carrie

Three Little Words
Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE MAN LOOKED like a smuggler.

In a library? Amused with the incongruity, Tess Bucek slid the card from the pocket of Sis Boom Bah! A Survival Guide to Cheerleading Camp and passed the book beneath the bar-code scanner. She was so accustomed to the task that it wasn’t necessary to look away from the suspicious character loitering between the arts and history sections. As he moved to one of the study tables with a stack of books, she stamped a date on the card in red and returned it to the pocket.

“Due back in three weeks.” Tess slid the book across the checkout desk to Sarah Johnson, who would have been her niece if she’d married into the family as planned. Instead, they were merely acquaintances, and lucky to be that since Tess wasn’t on speaking terms with Sarah’s father, Erik. “Have a nice time at camp.”

“Oh, I will. Thanks, Miss Bucek,” Sarah bubbled, thrilled about making the JV cheerleading squad before school had let out for the summer. “I can already do a super cartwheel, but my herkies…”

Tess smiled and nodded as Sarah went on about cheerleading stunts, surreptitiously rising off her heels and telescoping her neck to keep sight of the stranger seated beyond the girl’s bobbing blond ponytail.

He was tall, dark and mysterious. Tess would have shivered if she was the shivering type.

A smuggler with a tortured conscience, she decided as Sarah finally said goodbye. There was an air about him—intense, conflicted, maybe even dangerous. Definitely shady.

Grosse Pointe Blank, Tony Soprano, The Tulip Thief, every detective novel she’d ever read…they all filtered through Tess’s quick-firing synapses. After serving more than ten years as a librarian in a poky small town where “danger” meant icy roads or the fire index, pop culture was all she had for reference. She preferred fiction, anyway. Particularly when it came to the criminal element.

She’d honed a vivid imagination during the time when she’d been stuck in a one-bedroom cottage with her newly divorced and depressed mother, listening to a limited collection of Beatles, Bread and Simon and Garfunkel LPs. Ever since the bow tie that was really a spy camera in the song “America,” Tess had taken to making up little stories about everyone around her. Their next-door neighbor with the green thumb had become a poisoner burying bodies in the petunia patch. She imagined that her fourth-grade teacher, bland Mrs. Gorski, metamorphosed into a disco diva after the bell rang, complete with polyester wrap dress and sparkly blue eye shadow.

Even now, Tess continued to indulge her flights of fancy. Cheap entertainment for the comfortably settled.

Impelled by an inward squiggly feeling—not a shiver—Tess stepped out from behind the desk and grabbed the half-filled return cart parked nearby. The wheels squeaked as she pushed it toward the 900s—the history section. The stranger looked up from his book, his gaze watchful. Perhaps leery.

She smiled her pleasant professional-librarian smile. “Did you find what you wanted, sir?”

The man had keen eyes, even though his lashes lowered and his gaze avoided hers. Oddly evasive, Tess thought with a genuine twinge of suspicion.

The stranger nodded and returned to the open book, ducking his head between hunched shoulders. The back of his collar gaped around locks of wavy black hair. The long hair and a chin shadowed with stubble gave him the intriguing devil-may-care air that had sparked her imagination, even though a similar look was affected by a good third of the local single-male population. On them it was scrubby and slapdash. On this guy—dashing.

Tess sneaked a peak at the heavily illustrated book he’d selected. Lighthouses. Just as he’d asked for. She’d volunteered to show him the way, but he’d wanted to browse.

He’s the brains behind a Canadian smuggling operation, she decided. A modern-day pirate. Hence the lighthouse research. He’d come to Alouette scouting for a remote drop-off point. Guns or drugs, she imagined.

Or animal smuggling. Monkeys, marmosets or exotic birds—rare blue macaws. That’s what Jack Colton had been doing in Romancing the Stone and she remembered an article in a back issue of Smithsonian about the trafficking of rare species. Except it didn’t make a lot of sense, sneaking contraband across two borders….

Abandoning Dewey decimal, Tess blindly thrust a cookbook among the Egyptians. Black-bear organs—that was it! He was smuggling contraband out of the Upper Peninsula, not in.

Her imagination took full flight. A Chinese man with an eye patch was the contact. His name was Suk Yung Foo and he’d been sent by his gangster father to an American college to better himself. Instead, he’d met this guy, a former, um, professor…who’d been on the track to full tenure until the…cheating scandal? Embezzlement of research grants?

No. The man had too much sex appeal for his downfall to be anything but nubile young coeds.

Tess shook her head. “How predictable.”

The stranger glanced back at her. “Predictable?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Why, uh, someone’s misfiled a cookbook. Dust Off Your Bread Machine does not belong beside Nubian Artifacts.”

“You put it there.”

“Did I?” The man must have eyes in the back of his head, but then she’d heard that of crooks.

He shrugged and returned to his reading. For a long moment Tess watched, frozen, as he flipped from illustration to illustration. Then she jammed the bread book onto her cart and wheeled it fast in the opposite direction, her heels clacking on the parquet floor. She slowed when she turned at the end of the row and peered back at him, catching glimpses of him along the aisles as she moved away at a more leisurely pace.

She was being ridiculous. He was a perfectly normal man reading about lighthouses. Alouette’s Gull Rock Lighthouse, situated on the narrow, rocky peninsula that framed one side of the bay, was frequently photographed by tourists, and it had been featured in several travel books. Although the lighthouse was out of commission and not accessible to the public, it was too prominent and exposed to be the base of operations for a smuggling operation.

Even one that operated at night? Alouette rolled up the sidewalks by ten. A herd of zebras could stampede downtown and no one would know until they stepped in the evidence the next morning.

Tess shook her head. Oh, stop it. Get back to your job.

She slipped the cookbook into its proper place, made quick work of shelving the remaining books and returned to the front desk. The stranger was still seated at the study table. If he was doing any sort of serious research, he must have a photographic memory—he hadn’t made a single note.

“Is he a tourist?” whispered Beth Trudell as she moved behind the desk, one hand splayed over her protruding midsection.

“Probably.”

“He doesn’t look like a tourist.”

“No.”

“You’d best stop staring at him and go take charge of the kids. They’re waiting for their story. I can’t promise how patiently.”

With a small groan, Beth eased herself onto a stool. She was twenty-three, married for a year, and presently eight months, one week and three days pregnant, give or take a few hours. She had been Tess’s assistant in one form or another ever since Tess had started working here. That first day, Beth had been a shy adolescent with spindly arms and thick glasses. She’d read Sweet Valley books until closing time and then helped Tess sweep, straighten chairs and water plants. The next day, Tess had introduced the girl to Little Women, Anne of Green Gables and Nancy Drew and asked if she wanted to help out with the new children’s summer-reading program.

“You finished the craft project?” Tess asked idly. Delaying. She really wanted to know what the stranger was up to. Besides, the noise from the adjacent children’s reading room hadn’t escalated to the danger zone yet.

“Six Popsicle-stick planters, all set for repotting the nasturtiums.”

“Only six?”

Beth settled herself more comfortably, wincing a little as she propped her feet on the rungs. “Grady Kujanen smashed his. He did it deliberately, so I didn’t let him make another. We were out of sticks, anyway. Then he sat beneath the table and stared at my belly while he pouted.” Beth chuckled. “Get this. He asked me when I was going to pop.”

“Pop? Where in the world…?”

“I guess he heard it from his dad. Now the children think I’m a champagne bottle. Grady told them that when I go to the hospital the doctor pulls the cork, and voilà—a baby.”

“If only it were that easy,” Tess said.

Beth patted the baby in her belly. She called it Bump. “Yeah.”

“Five more weeks, sweetie.” Beth’s due date had been circled in red on the library calendar ever since they’d administered a drugstore pregnancy test in the ladies’ room one slow Thursday night. Neither having much experience with babies, they’d used every research tool at their disposal to compile a fact sheet for the next nine months. The first fact they’d learned was that “nine months” was a misnomer. Gestation was actually forty weeks. The extra days were making Beth a little crazy.

“Randy refuses to talk in term of weeks, ever since I had that meltdown at the thought of still being pregnant in July. From now on, he says, it’s one day at a time.” Beth wiped her forehead with the back of one wrist. “One hot, sweaty day at a time.”

It was barely eighty outside, but Tess cranked up the fan that whirred from a shelf behind the checkout desk. They didn’t have air-conditioning—no budget. “You look done in, Beth. Why don’t you leave early?”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. But not till the kids are gone. You know how hectic it gets when they’re all checking out at once.” Beth swiveled to face the library proper, which had been fashioned from the ground-floor rooms of a big Victorian house on Timber Avenue, one block from the elementary school and two blocks from downtown bayside Alouette. “And we have our other patrons to keep an eye on,” she added significantly. Her arched eyebrows disappeared behind curly, slightly damp bangs.

Tess shot Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious another glance. He was absorbed in his book, but she would have sworn his ears were pricked. Why a conversation about due dates and craft projects would concern a rogue pirate, she had no idea.

A shriek came from the children’s area. Through the open doorway, Tess saw Grady Kujanen raising a picture book over his head. “Take over for me,” she told Beth before hurrying away.

Beth’s eyes slitted as she whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Synchronize your watch. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

Tess nodded, although Bump ruined the spy effect Beth was going for. Maybe if she’d been wearing a gabardine suit and a bow tie…

In the children’s room, Tess stepped into the fray and snatched the book out of Grady’s hands before he could bring it down on Sierra Caldwell’s head. The children knew she demanded best behavior, so after she’d admonished Grady they settled down without much complaint, gathering on the bright pillows and beanbags strewn across the carpet of the storytelling nook.

Normally, Tess would have pulled the filmy blue star-sprinkled curtains she’d hung at this end of the room to give the nook a cozy feel, but today she wanted a clear view to the main room of the library. You never knew when a baby might decide to “pop” early, so it paid to be vigilant.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that she could also see the study tables from her position on the storytelling throne, a tufted purple-velvet ottoman trimmed in bobbled fringe. The stranger had set aside the last of his picture books and was paging through a paperback by a local author, Lighthouses of Upper Michigan. Hmm…

Soon Tess had forgotten the suspicious unshaved ex-professor bear-organs smuggler and was absorbed by the story she read to the children, The Princess Who Wished Tomorrow Would Never Come. The group was a good one despite Grady’s tendency to make himself the center of attention. When he’d first started in the reading program that Tess ran three times a week all summer long, his behavior had been much worse—loud, bratty and completely disinterested in books, despite a year of kindergarten. Tess had spoken with his teachers to determine the best course of action, and so far, her subtle efforts to engage the boy’s imagination were working. He’d begun to understand the magic of reading, even though his mother considered the library little more than a convenient baby-sitting service and wasn’t too happy about lugging Grady’s books home with them.

Tess started each session with basic reading-comprehension work, then gave way to Beth for a fun arts and crafts project or mini-outdoor field trip—one day the children started nasturtium seeds, another day they chased butterflies in the library’s flower garden. It gratified Tess that they considered the storybook she read to them at the end of the hour the best treat of all. There were so many good children’s books to choose from, and she always got into the performance, using character voices and facial expressions with a theatrical flair that surprised even herself. Before she’d been dragged into performing with the local theater group a few years back, she hadn’t thought she was the dramatic type.

Not that a little bit of small-town stage experience had changed anything. She was still only Tess Bucek, a librarian with a private life as unremarkable and familiar as a bowl of oatmeal.

“‘The green-winged whippersnapper soared from the sky with a rose in its beak,’” Tess read. She turned the page. “‘Princess Ella Umbrella Pumpkinella Fantabuzella—’” the children singsonged the name with her “‘—took the rose and said…’” Tess pointed at Grady.

The chubby boy went on hands and knees to see the open book she held out. His lower lip stuck out with determination. After a few seconds, he read, “‘Zip-per-zap.’”

“Zipperzap!” Tess agreed. She allowed Grady to select a children’s tattoo from a nearby basket. She always kept a stash of modest prizes like stickers and cartoon-character pencil erasers handy.

“Zipperzap,” sighed Lucy Grant, a shy, delicate five-year-old with translucent skin. Her huge blue eyes shone with pleasure.

“‘Once the magic word was spoken and the rose petals had been flung to the northerly wind,’” Tess went on, finishing up the story with a triumphant flourish, “‘the sun came out from the dark clouds, the flowers blossomed and the creatures of the forest rose from their hundred-years’ sleep.’” She looked up and saw the dark-haired stranger hovering in the doorway, listening to her with an intent expression. “‘Princess Ella Umbrella Pumpkinella, uh, Fantas—’” No, not fantasy.

“Fan-ta-bu-zel-la,” the children recited in unison.

Tess had lost track entirely.

The man saw that he’d disrupted her flow. “I’d like to speak with you after you’re finished,” he said in a low, serious voice that made her nape prickle. He walked away before she could respond.

Tess swallowed. What was that about? Why did she feel so remarkably different?

The kids were clamoring for the ending. Tess focused on the page, illustrated with a green-eyed, freckle-faced princess in a pair of bib overalls. “‘And then the, um, princess said, Even though today is beautiful, I know that tomorrow may be even better.’”

HE COULD WAIT, Tess decided. Parents were arriving to pick up the children and there were gluey planters to be shown off and books to be checked out. When the library had cleared out finally, Lucy Grant was left behind. Her single dad, Evan Grant, was a gym teacher and basketball coach at the high school. Summers, he picked up an extra paycheck with a local builder and couldn’t always get off work to deliver Lucy to her baby-sitter’s house. Usually either Tess or Beth ducked out to take her there.

Not today. Tess put Lucy’s stick planter on the windowsill to dry and settled the girl at one of the child-size tables with the second book in the Princess Ella series. Today, she’d call Evan at work. Beth would have volunteered, but her house was in the opposite direction—a long enough walk for a pregnant woman without adding a detour. And Tess couldn’t leave the library unattended, whether or not there was a smuggler on the premises. Lucy would have to wait for her father.

Tess went back to the main desk to call Evan. The stranger loitered near the magazine rack, gazing out the window at the flower garden. Maybe he was conducting a surveillance of traffic patterns. Little did he know that on Timber Avenue, there was no traffic to surveil.

After hanging up, Tess turned to Beth. “Go on home. Evan can take a break, so he’s coming for Lucy.”

Beth smiled tiredly. “Good. I don’t want to waddle any farther than I have to.”

“You can take my car if the walk is too much for you today.” Tess had been urging her assistant to quit her part-time position for the last few weeks of her pregnancy, but Beth said that waiting out the time at home alone in her tiny apartment, staring at her belly button and the movements of Bump beneath it, would drive her bananas.

“No, my doctor says I should keep walking.” Beth groaned as she hoisted herself off the stool. “I’d like to strap a watermelon to his gut and send him around the block ten times. See what he thinks then.”

Tess patted her consolingly. “Pour yourself a cold drink and put your feet up as soon as you get home.”

“I’ll have to pry my shoes off first. My feet and ankles have swollen like bread dough.”

Tess offered her arm as they walked to the front door, a heavy slab of mahogany inset with leaded glass. She’d left it open to the June sunshine. “Randy’s going to be home tonight, isn’t he?” Beth’s husband drove a bakery delivery truck and was sometimes away overnight because his route was so sizable. From one end of the Upper Peninsula to the other was more than three hundred miles, and he delivered to northern Wisconsin as well.

“He promised. His boss even promised that Randy wouldn’t have to do any more overnighters, till Bump arrives, anyway.”

“Good.” Tess gave Beth a gentle squeeze. “You take care. Call me if anything happens. Or doesn’t. Call me if you just want to talk.”

Beth glanced into the main room of the library, which opened off the small entry hall and had been formed by knocking out walls between the house’s formal parlor and second sitting room. “You call me as soon as he leaves,” Beth whispered. She jerked her head at the lingering stranger. “I want to find out what’s up with him.”

“He’s probably going to ask me for directions to the lighthouse. Maybe he’s a photographer.”

Beth’s nose crinkled. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Or a reincarnated lighthouse keeper bedeviled by nightmares he can’t explain.”

“Now you’re talking. But I bet you could come up with an even better scenario if you tried.”

Tess laughed. Her assistant knew her too well. “Go home, Beth.”

Beth went, waddling with one hand pressed to the small of her back and the other making a phone shape at her ear. “Call me,” she mouthed.

Tess waved Beth away, smiling to hide her unmollified worry over Randy’s late hours. His boss wasn’t as accommodating as he might have been, but there was no helping it. The Trudells were struggling to make ends meet. Beth’s parents, an older couple who’d had their only daughter late in life, had recently retired in Florida. They planned to return soon for an extended stay, to help Beth out with the baby, but until then, Randy and Tess were the young mother-to-be’s main support system. Aside from any number of do-gooders in the community who would be glad to pitch in and help in case of emergency.

Although the two women were primarily best friends, there were times Tess felt like Beth’s older sister, even her mother. If it was possible to be a mother when you’d never given birth yourself.

Tess frowned, spreading her hands over her flat tummy. Eleven years ago, she was on her way to a life just like Beth’s when—

Tess brushed off the sad memory. Dismissing the tragedy that had shaped her life had become easier with practice. And distance.

She walked into the main room, checking first on Lucy. The girl, a dreamy, inward child, not unlike Tess at that age, was completely absorbed in the book.

Tess’s second glance went to the make-believe pirate. “Sorry for the delay. How can I help you, Mr…?”

He came forward, not as tall as she’d assumed but still many inches past her five-two. Tall enough to make her tilt her chin up when she looked into his clear hazel-brown eyes.

“Connor Reed,” he said, offering his hand.

“Tess Bucek.” His hand was large and cool and dry. Hers was small and warm and moist. And they fit together just fine, for a brief moment that made her feel as if her cells were rushing like a warm river toward him. He let go then, and she blinked and said in a far too girlish voice, “Hi.”

His eyebrows drew down. “Hi.”

She said, “Connor Reed,” mulling over the name. It was naggingly familiar. “Are you from around here?”

“Not really.”

“I feel like I know you from somewhere….”

His features tightened. “I used to spend summers here, with my grandfather.”

“Did you?” She tried to picture Connor Reed as a boy and no bells rang. Summer people. They came and went, very few of them leaving a mark except for the trash they threw off their boats, the cash in the tills of local businesses and the rising prices of shoreline property. Not many of them ventured into the library with the distraction of sun-soaked days at the beach beckoning so near. Lake Superior was practically lapping at her doorstep.

“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” she said doubtfully, “so I can’t imagine how I’d know—”

“You don’t. You don’t know me.”

He was lying. She was certain. But why?

“Who’s your grandfather?” she asked, letting her suspicion show. Close-knit families were important to local folks. Their ties were meaningful, binding, unbreakable. And closed to outsiders. She knew first-hand.

Connor hesitated. “Addison Mitchell.”

She shook her head. Nothing.

“He moved away some time ago, but he’s been back for about a year now.”

“In Alouette?” The town was small enough that she knew just about everyone, at least by sight.

“Ishpeming. At a nursing home.”

“I see.”

Connor let out a soft breath. “He was once the Gull Rock lighthouse keeper.”

The lightbulb went on. “Oh. Of course—Old Man Mitchell!” Tess’s cheeks got warm when she realized how that sounded. “I mean, that’s what we always called him. Kids, you know. He used to chase us away from the lighthouse grounds.”

Connor said nothing in reply and her eyes narrowed. Sonny Mitchell had always lived alone, as far as she remembered, until the lighthouse had become automated and then decommissioned altogether a few years later. Gull Rock was quite isolated and austere. Sonny “Old Man” Mitchell had been a notorious crank.

She prodded for more information. “I still don’t remember you, though, Mr. Reed.”

“Connor,” he said. He glanced over her, up and down, making her toes flex inside conservative Payless pumps. “I’m older than you—we wouldn’t have connected when I was ten and you were…still in diapers?”

She doubted there was that much of an age difference, even though he had a sort of weary, haunted look about him that made him seem…well, not old exactly, but sort of cynical and worn out. “I’m thirty-two.”

“Thirty-nine.”

Okay, he had a point. She wasn’t hanging out at the lighthouse when she was three. He might even be telling the truth about visiting his grandfather, except that she doubted he was telling all of it.

Unless her suspicion was only her vivid imagination run amok. Which, admittedly, wasn’t all that infrequent an occurrence. It was fortunate she usually kept her fancies to herself. Outwardly, she was as regular as a metronome.

“Now that we’ve established my provenance,” Connor said with a small twitch of one corner of his mouth. The hollows in his cheeks deepened. He was trying not to smile at her.

Not used to being found amusing, Tess elongated her neck, tilting her head back. She was short; imperious was a stretch, but she tried. “Yes?”

He sobered. “I have a favor to ask you. Or—well, not really a favor. It can be a job. I’d pay for your time.”

She felt her eyes widen. He wanted her to help him load bear gallbladders off Gull Rock when she could barely stand to handle raw chicken giblets? Certainly not. She almost chuckled at the thought, before remembering that she was being ridiculous with her farfetched imaginings and really must stop.

Right now.

“I saw you with the children, reading, teaching…so I wondered, if it’s not an imposition—” Connor’s gaze held steady even if his words were hesitant “—whether you might be willing to teach…”

Teach him how to read?

Tess tried not to look shocked. Suddenly all the little details made sense. The way he’d concentrated on the lighthouse illustrations and not the text. How he hadn’t taken any notes. The intent look on his face when he’d watched her storytelling group. She’d taken it for his natural demeanor, but it might have been fierce concentration. Exactly the way Grady Kujanen concentrated on sounding out a new word.

Heavens. And here she’d pegged Connor Reed as a former professor gone bad. She couldn’t have been more wrong!

“Of course I’ll teach you how to read,” she said, stepping in with a reassuring squeeze of his arm when he continued to hesitate over the request.

His eyes flashed. “Teach me?”

CHAPTER TWO

AT CONNOR’S OBVIOUS surprise, the librarian’s chin came down and she leaned closer, exuding warmth and understanding. “Trust me, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. There are so many people like you, from all walks of life. I commend your courage in coming forward, really I do. This is your turning point. One day, you’ll look back and—”

Suddenly she stopped the stream of platitudes, her mouth hanging open. Must have finally read his face.

“It’s not me,” he said.

She had clasped his hands with encouragement, but now she let go. “Would it be…” long pause “…a close friend?”

“My grandfather.” There it was, baldly. Connor hoped Sonny wouldn’t kill him for involving a third party. The librarian seemed kind, and possibly discreet. She’d certainly been surreptitious about checking him out. But not sneaky enough, because he’d noticed every one of her shy glances and speculative stares.

At first he’d noticed because she was an attractive woman, small and cute as a chipping sparrow, with bright eyes and darting hands and a shiny cap of copper hair. Then he’d realized that it was possible she’d recognized him as an infamous quasi celebrity.

He’d come to hate when that happened. Over and over again, he’d suffered the lingering stares, the double takes. Eyes widened with recognition, hands slapped over mouths. That’s Connor Reed. The man who set the killer free. I’ve seen him on the news. Despicable! He should be ashamed.

He’d put up with it through the hearings and the aftermath, but now that it was over—or so he hoped—he’d known he had to get away. So he’d run. As far as he could.

Alouette, Michigan, a small outpost on the far northern border of the country, seemed to qualify as the ends of the earth. As he’d remembered from a few brief vacations at the lighthouse, people here were friendly but not intrusive. They’d gossip among themselves about Connor’s culpability in the Strange case, but they wouldn’t pillory him. Not in public, anyway. Even so, he planned to keep his head low.

The librarian was nodding. “Uh-huh. Your grandfather. Well. There are literacy programs that will help. I can put you in touch with a teacher who—”

“No. Sonny wouldn’t want a program. Nothing official.” As it was, Sonny would probably object to Tess Bucek, even on her own. He’d asked Connor to teach him to read—only Connor.

The librarian blinked. “Why me?”

Connor scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He was dead tired from a day and a half on the road—New York City to small-town Michigan in one shot—from one extreme to another in thirty-some hours. He’d gone first to visit Sonny at the nursing home, then drove into Alouette for a look at the old lighthouse, since that was all his grandfather had talked about.

Stopping at the library had been a sudden whim. A few books on lighthouses seemed like a good way to get his grandfather started. Connor had soon figured out that he didn’t know the first thing about teaching a stubborn, crotchety old man to read. He’d been about to leave, when Tess’s voice had drawn him over to the children’s area.

Voices, rather. He’d watched long enough to see that while she had the verve to entrance the kids with her storytelling ability, she was also a patient and easy teacher. If anyone could charm Old Man Mitchell into proper reading lessons, it was Tess Bucek.

She was waiting for his answer.

“Why?” Connor shrugged. “I saw you with the kids. You seem to have a talent. And my grandfather’s a special case…”

“A hard case, I expect.” There was irony in her voice, but her gaze flickered uncertainly. Her eyes were green, not bright, but soft, like moss.

She’d do. “I can’t deny it,” Connor said.

“You need someone qualified to evaluate your grandfather’s reading level, at the very least. I do have a little bit of experience and a minor in education, but I’m no expert.”

“Exactly why I chose you.” Connor didn’t want to come right out and say that his grandfather wasn’t expecting a teacher and wouldn’t welcome one. If the first introduction was unofficial, a friendly how-d’ya-do, Tess could ease herself into the old man’s graces—it would be a stretch calling them good—and begin to work her magic. For all his gruffness, Sonny Mitchell had a soft spot for any female with a soothing voice and nice legs. Tess’s were…

Connor looked down. A canary-yellow skirt stopped an inch above her knees. Cute kneecaps. Curvy calves. Slim ankles. Tess Bucek’s legs were more than acceptable.

Her head lowered, following the direction of his gaze. She tapped her toe. “You chose me for my shoes?”

“Uh, no.” Connor looked up, his gaze colliding with hers. Her lashes were a pale reddish brown that gave her eyes a wide-awake, innocent-schoolgirl look. He had to remind himself that she was thirty-two. She seemed…untouched. Unmarred.

Especially by the likes of him.

He offered another useless shrug. “I’m going on instinct. You seem like the right person for the job. My grandfather can be difficult.”

“I know. I remember, or at least I remember his reputation.” Tess hesitated. “Maybe you should tell me more about him.”

“Not a lot to tell. He’s led a simple life. He was the oldest son of Cornish immigrants. Worked since he was eleven—any job he could get, but primarily in the iron mines. So his schooling took a back seat, I guess. Eventually he landed the job as lighthouse keeper and it stuck.”

“You know, I never knew he was married. To me, he was always Old Man Mitchell, living alone at Gull Rock.”

“Yup, he was married for more than thirty years. He and Grandma had one daughter—my mother. She was the one who sent me to live with Sonny for those first few summers after Grandma died. She hoped I’d keep the old man company.”

“Did you?”

“Pretty much had to. There wasn’t a lot to do at the lighthouse but talk. Or in Alouette, as I remember it.”

“We manage to find ways to amuse ourselves.” Tess blushed pink when Connor lifted his brows at that. She rushed on. “Where did your grandfather go when the state shut down the lighthouse?”

“My parents wanted him to live with them downstate. Sonny wasn’t too happy about being away from the big lake, but he settled in eventually. He was satisfied until the past few years, when he started in about returning to his roots, before he…”

Connor winced at the surprising amount of regret he felt, thinking of the short time his grandfather had left. He should have made a stronger effort to visit instead of giving up so much of himself to his work. What had that got him except trouble?

Even the loss of his reputation and, it seemed, his will to write were put into perspective now that he was losing Sonny, too.

Connor took a breath. “Sonny’s health isn’t good. He’s eighty-nine. He wanted to come home.” To die.

Tess’s expression was troubled. “He’s eighty-nine and now he wants to learn how to read?”

“What can I say? This is his last chance to amend old regrets.” Always a good idea, Connor told himself. And sooner was better than later, if only there was a way….

Tess’s quiet voice filtered through his black thoughts, defusing the gloom. “This is your grandfather’s dying wish, isn’t it?” She had her soft hands on his again, pressing lightly, sweet with concern. “I’m so sorry.”

Connor nodded.

Her lashes batted away a sheen of moisture. “Then I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thank you,” he said, his throat gone raw with the emotions he kept swallowing down. Struck by her empathy, he had an odd impulse to give her a hug, but it had been too long since he’d engaged in a normal relationship. He’d buried his emotions deep. Lost the ability to connect.

So he shook Tess’s hand instead.

Sounds came from the foyer, breaking them apart. A man walked into the library, a tall guy with clipped brown hair and a healthy, vigorous air. He was dressed in a sweat-stained T-shirt, faded jeans and work boots. His handsome, all-American face lit up when he saw Tess. “Hey, Marian. Thanks for calling me.”

“Evan. Hello. Lucy’s waiting—”

The slight blond girl that Connor had forgotten about emerged from the children’s reading room. “Hi, Daddy. May I check out three books today, please?” Her voice was so soft it was barely audible.

The tall guy knelt to look at the storybooks she held out. “Jeez, Luce, I don’t know. Are you going to make me read all of them to you tonight?”

The girl nodded, smiling hopefully.

Her father sighed. “Oh, all right. Give them to Miss Bucek so she can check them out for you.” He rose, looking at Connor with open curiosity. Maybe because all strangers were suspect in a small town, maybe because Evan had seen him on TV or in print. Or it could have been because Connor’s expression had changed when he heard that Tess was, beyond any doubt, a miss.

“Evan, this is Connor Reed. He’s in town to visit his grandfather, Sonny Mitchell.” Tess had moved behind the desk and was reaching over to take the books Lucy held up to her. “Sonny’s before your time here, so you wouldn’t know him, but he used to be the lighthouse keeper. Connor spent summers at Gull Rock.”

The tall guy held out his hand. “Evan Grant. Sounds like you were a lucky kid.”

“At the time, I didn’t know how lucky.” The men shook, matching strong grips. Connor’s observational skills were sharp. Since so many people lied to him in the course of his work, he’d learned to recognize subtle signals and body language and make instant character assessments. Most of the time he was right in his judgment. He’d always known that Roderick Strange was guilty, although that certainly hadn’t taken any special skill.

In this instance, it was easy enough to calculate that Evan was a good, honorable, obviously hardworking man. Didn’t mean Connor had to like the guy.

The familiarity between Evan and Tess was clear. Connor didn’t know why that should unsettle him, when he wasn’t even remotely in the market for a girlfriend. Yet the hair on the back of his hand had risen when he’d gripped Evan’s hand, as if the shake had been about taking the measure of an adversary rather than a simple greeting.

Forget it. Tess Bucek seemed like a respectable person. He no longer was, according to his law-and-order critics. And Connor wasn’t sure there was any good reason to refute that opinion.

“Staying in town long?” Evan asked, sliding his gaze from Connor to Tess.

Connor crossed his arms. “Indefinitely.”

“Have you checked in to a hotel?” Tess flipped open a book. “There are only a couple options in Alouette, but if you’re staying in one of the nearby towns—”

Connor cut her off. “I haven’t decided.”

She wasn’t deterred by his shortness. “It’s tourist season, but early yet, so something should be available. There you go, Lucy. All checked out.” Tess handed over the books in a plastic “Great Summer Reading!” drawstring bag. “Will I see you on Monday, sweetie?”

Lucy nodded shyly.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Evan said. He aimed a casual grin at Tess. “Thanks, Marian.” He nodded at Connor, fixing him with a serious stare, then walked out with his hand resting on his daughter’s thin shoulders.

Connor took the look to mean: Don’t mess with Tess or I’ll cheerfully beat you into the ground like a fence post.

He waited until the pair had cleared the building, then said, “Marian the Librarian, huh?”

“The local theater group did The Music Man a while back. Evan’s just teasing.”

“You’re dating him?”

She paused, wary. “Evan has a daughter. How do you know he’s not married?”

“Hmm. I did notice that he wears a wedding ring.”

Tess nodded, her forehead creasing a little. Concern or dismay? Connor couldn’t be sure. “Ring or not, Evan’s single,” he went on. “Call me sexist, but he wouldn’t be leaving work in the middle of the day to look after his daughter if there was a wife in the picture.”

Tess said softly, “He’s a widower.”

“Tough break. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you dating him?”

Her voice rose a notch to sharpness. “Why don’t you tell me, Quizmaster?”

Connor weighed Evan’s familiarity and protectiveness against the easy departure. “You might have dated at some point, but not currently. Your relationship is more the platonic kind—brother, sister, friends.” A relationship compounded by a good dose of motherly longing, judging by Tess’s gentle way with the girl, but he left that unsaid. It was too personal.

Yeah. Like her love life wasn’t?

“You’re right again.” Tess stacked books briskly; he figured she didn’t like being pigeonholed even though she was a walking endorsement of the friendly, intelligent, proper-librarian stereotype.

The thing was, he knew that everyone was unique beneath the surface. Each person has a story, and secret thoughts and dreams. Each person has justifications for who they are or what they’ve done with their lives. Part of his job as a true-crime writer was digging deeper to find what motives and meanings an ordinary appearance hid.

There was a lot more to Tess Bucek, even if it was tightly bound, but he had no intention of making the what and why of her his business. All he needed to know was that she had a skill for teaching. He’d buy her time, for his grandfather’s sake. But, for your own sake, stay away from the inner her. Don’t delve deeper. Don’t even make friends.

Tess was talking. “…small, spartan stone cottages. Run-down and not very comfortable, I’m afraid. They’re usually only booked by fishermen and hunters.”

Connor nodded as if he’d followed. “Mmm.”

“Maxine’s Cottages,” Tess explained to bring him back to speed. “The clientele is downscale, to be polite. You should try Bay House. It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn up on the hill. It’s undergoing renovation, but they’re still taking guests. If you tell Claire, the manager, I sent you, she might be able to fit you in. Several of their rooms have a view of the lighthouse, although if a rock-bottom price is more important than quality—” Tess’s gaze touched on his unshaven, rumpled appearance “—you might rather go to Maxine’s.”

“Thanks,” Connor said to dismiss talk of accommodations. He supposed he’d have to take a room somewhere. The lighthouse didn’t appear to be habitable. He could camp on the grounds, maybe, if he wanted to spring for a tent and the accompanying gear. The isolation was appealing, but it was too long since he’d roughed it, Upper Peninsula style—which was only for the extremely hardy. At least for tonight, he wanted a real bed.

“I mean, you are interested in the Gull Rock lighthouse, right? Or were the books strictly for your grandfather’s sake?”

“Both, I guess.” Connor cleared his throat. “Seeing as how I own it.”

A paperback mystery slid from Tess’s fingers and dropped onto the desktop, pages splayed. “Pardon me? You own the lighthouse?”

“There was a public auction a year ago…”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I put in the high bid.”

“But I heard—” Tess gave her head a shake, making chunks of her short, thick hair bounce in the sunlight, shining like a handful of new pennies. “The word around town was that a famous writer bought the place. Unfounded rumor, I suppose.” She tilted her head, lifted a shoulder. “That happens.”

But she was staring at him now. Any minute she’d make the connection. Connor kept his face blank. “All I know is I’m the owner.”

Fortunately, she veered to another subject. “Your grandfather must be pleased.”

“He says I’m crazy, but, yeah, he’s damn pleased. I’m hoping to whip the lighthouse into acceptable shape and take him out there for a final visit.”

“Ohhh.” Tess smiled fondly, looking at Connor as if he’d transformed from grungy stranger to Hallmark card.

“I’ll sell it after he’s gone,” he said out of a certain perversity, denying the reasons he’d bought the lighthouse just to prove how cold he could be. He didn’t need Tess to start thinking he was an okay guy when really he was a hard-hearted son of a bitch who’d barter grief for a good story. “The thing’s a white elephant. It was a crazy idea to bid on it in the first place.”

Although Tess’s eyes had narrowed, she wasn’t about to let him knock her down so easily. Instead, she smiled at his grouchiness, unimpressed and unintimidated. His estimation of her went up another notch.

“It’s a local landmark,” she said. “You could donate it to the town. The historical society would be absolutely thrilled to take over management and develop the site as a museum.”

“Do I look like a philanthropist?”

Her gaze traced over him. Not with disinterest, if the glint in her eyes meant anything. Her lips pursed. “You don’t want to know what I think you look like.”

He shrugged. “That bad?”

“Nothing a shave and a change couldn’t cure.”

“I’ll be more presentable next time you see me.”

She blinked, catching herself staring. He smiled, liking—despite himself—the way she became ruffled, running a hand through her hair, stacking and restacking the books before her. Her fingers pattered nervously over the desktop.

“When can I take you to visit Sonny?” he asked. “He’s at Three Pines.”

“I, um, I’ll have to—”

“The sooner the better.”

She sighed. Squinted one eye at the clock near the desk. “This evening? I’m off work at six. Would seven-thirty be okay?”

“How about six-thirty? We’ll have to drive to the nursing home in Ishpeming, and Sonny conks out pretty early. It’ll be a very short visit.”

“That barely gives me time to wash and change. I suppose I could grab a sandwich on the go.”

“If your stomach can wait, I’ll take you to dinner afterward.” The words were out of Connor’s mouth before he could censor them. Damn. “Nothing personal, of course. Just a business dinner. We’ll discuss how to proceed with Sonny’s lessons.” Make that how to persuade Sonny to accept lessons from her.

Tess frowned. “If that’s what you want.”

She couldn’t have been less enthusiastic.

“But I’m taking my own car,” she added.

Yes, she could.

Connor uncrossed his arms and walked over to the study table where he’d left the lighthouse books. “Seems unnecessary, but whatever you want.”

Tess defended herself, probably because she was too prim to be rude. “Suppose you choose to get a room outside of Alouette. This way, you won’t have to drive me back.”

He made up his mind. “It’s more important that I be in town to work on the lighthouse. I’ll try the B and B you mentioned. Bay House, was it?”

“Yes,” she said faintly, looking worried, as if she suspected him of backing her into a corner.

Rightly. He was enjoying bantering with her a lot more than he should have. “Can I check these out?” he asked, sliding his books across her desk.

“You may, with a temporary guest card. You’ll have to provide some personal information and pay ten dollars.” She bent, rummaged through a drawer, then handed him a pale green card and a pen. The process seemed too trusting to Connor, but that must be how they did it in small towns.

He wrote down his New York address. Luckily, there was no line asking for his occupation.

Tess read over the card, then requested two forms of ID. Trust wasn’t what it used to be. He gave her the money first, then added his driver’s license, a credit card and threw his New York Public Library card in for fun.

She fingered it contemplatively. “Do you go to the branch with the stone lions?”

He said yes, on occasion, although usually he used the 115th Street branch closest to his apartment. “Have you been there?”

“Just once. On my senior-class trip. I was seventeen and already planning to be a librarian. The New York Public Library seemed so glamorous.” She caught his skeptical eye. “Well, it was! For a library. I thought someday I’d be working there, if I didn’t get in at the Smithsonian first.” She gave a short laugh. “You know how it is when you’re a kid. Anything seems possible. Even a sophisticated life in the city.”

“What stopped you?”

“Nobody stopped me. I changed my mind.”

Connor noted the switch of words. Tess seemed to have no ability to shield her inner thoughts. Already he knew that she’d once dreamed big, but had settled for small. Probably because of a guy. It was always a guy.

Briefly, Connor let himself envy Tess’s guy, which was tolerable because the poor slob obviously wasn’t hers any longer.

Tess had gone prickly. She straightened items on the checkout desk—the same ones she’d just pushed into disarray—with a brisk, thin-lipped efficiency. When there was nothing left to straighten, she stepped back, well away from him, folding her hands together in a gesture that could have been peaceful if she hadn’t been gripping her fingers so tight. His questions had upset her more than innocent questions ought.

“We’re settled, then?” She pressed her thumbs together, turning the nail beds white. “I’ll bring my notebooks and a literacy test to the nursing home.”

“No, don’t do that. Not the first time. We can’t rush Sonny.”

“But I thought this was his request. Why shouldn’t we begin tonight…if time is short?”

Connor answered easily enough since he was telling the truth. “Because he’s crotchety Old Man Mitchell and his illiteracy has been a shameful secret up to now. We’ve got to take this slow.”

“I see. Yes. I understand.” Her words were clipped. She was waiting for him to go.

He took the books and started to the door. “I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?”

She closed her eyes for an instant and he thought she was giving in. Instead, her lashes lifted and she stared him down. “Did you forget? I’m taking my own car. After all, I barely know you.”

“You’ve seen my ID.”

“Which proves nothing.”

“What kind of lawbreaker do you take me for?”

“That’s yet to be determined.”

He laughed. “Well, then, thanks for the free books.”

“Don’t be smart with me, Mr. Reed.”

“Yes, Marian.” He looked back once more from the open doorway and saw that she was muttering to herself. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she said the word smuggler. He shrugged to himself. Smuggler was better than some of the names he’d been called lately.

TESS WAS GRATEFUL the library had emptied for the usual early-afternoon lull. She’d get a trickle of patrons wandering in and out the remainder of the afternoon and a final rush before closing time—which consisted of anywhere from two to five stragglers, most of whom would hurry in with a movie to return.

She wasn’t sure why she’d let Connor Reed talk her into scooting off to meet his grandfather right after work, except that her heart twinged when she thought of the old man, alone for all those long, lonely winters in the lighthouse and not being able to read. She’d have gone crazy if she hadn’t had books to keep her company all this time on her own, and she was nowhere near as isolated as a lighthouse keeper.

She went into her office, a small room on the other side of the entryway. It was a nook really, formed out of a coat closet and several borrowed feet from the dining-turned-periodical room. There was space for a desk and little else. Usually the office felt too tight, but for the moment it was a welcome haven.

With a few probing questions, Connor Reed had turned her inside out.

Suddenly she felt out of sorts with what had been a cozy, settled life. Was it because she found Connor disturbingly attractive, or that his questions had brought up old memories of the time before Jared?

Both, most likely. The attraction was interesting, even exciting. The other…

She thought of life now as A.J., After Jared, forgetting that she’d once been a different person. A girl. Silly, lighthearted and ambitious—even a little bit daring. Connor’s curiosity had brought all that back to mind.

Tess’s gaze went to the framed photo beside her computer. It was a classic pose—a proud young man in flannel and jeans holding up a gleaming rainbow trout, the lake behind him speckled with sunshine. Jared Johnson—her fiancé. Forever a fiancé, frozen in time because he’d been killed in a car accident the week before the wedding.

Tess stopped, making herself breathe, remembering when the thought of Jared had caused her actual physical pain. She was long past that now, but somehow she’d never quite moved on.

She’d been just twenty-one, Jared two years older. Young to marry, but the timing seemed right. She’d graduated from college that spring and Jared had immediately proposed. She knew he’d been pushing for marriage mostly because he didn’t want her to accept a job out of the area, but she hadn’t felt stifled. She was in love. An entry-level position at a large library system far from home wasn’t as appealing as she’d once imagined it to be. Whereas the prospect of marrying her high-school sweetheart and officially joining the large, boisterous Johnson family had been irresistible.

Tess propped her chin on her hand. Eleven years had provided enough distance for her to see that marrying Jared had been the safe choice. A good choice, a happy and probably satisfying one—especially when she thought of the children they might have had—but mostly safe.

As the only child of divorced parents, security was important to Tess. Her father was long gone, barely a memory. Her mother had moved away more than a decade ago right after Tess’s high-school graduation, satisfied that she’d finished raising her daughter and was therefore free to leave a town she despised. Tess had been okay with that—she was busy with college, and besides she’d had Jared’s family, in many ways closer and more supportive than her own.

Then the accident had happened and the wedding was canceled, and she’d realized just how alone she really was. The Johnson family hadn’t wanted anything to do with her because of her part in Jared’s death. She might have been even more stricken by their abandonment if the mere sight of them—especially Jared’s brothers, who looked so much like him—hadn’t made her fall apart. The only way she’d survived was to cut herself off from contact with the life that had almost been hers.

Her new job as the one and only librarian of the Alouette Public Library had been a godsend. The structure and duties had helped her through the worst of her grief. Eventually, she’d found her place in the world again and had learned to be happy with all she had—friends, a home, her health, a steady job.

But she’d had eleven years of that now. Maybe she was a little bored. Her escalating fantasies could be a sign that she was ready to step out of her comfort zone.

Right off, it was apparent that nothing about Connor Reed would make her feel safe. Thrilled, fascinated, aroused, but certainly not safe.

Of course, he wasn’t really a pirate or a smuggler, even though she couldn’t help thinking that he’d look good in a pair of gold hoop earrings and breeches. But then, who was he?

A click of the mouse of her tangerine iMac brought it out of sleep mode. She had a suspicion. When she’d mentioned the rumor that the lighthouse had been purchased by a famous writer, Connor hadn’t actually denied it. She couldn’t place him, but hadn’t he seemed familiar?

No, not familiar, really, except for a mental jog at his name. It was more that she’d been sharply, disturbingly aware of him. As a woman. But it was the librarian who’d solve the puzzle.

She logged on to a search engine and typed in Connor’s name. In seconds, data flashed onto her screen. Success!

With dawning horror, she scanned the information. The hollow in her stomach deepened as she clicked on the first link, which led her into the archives of a popular weekly newsmagazine. Graphics popped up, followed by text, then pixel by pixel, Connor’s photo, taken outside a courthouse. He was surrounded by reporters. His hair was shorter and he was dressed in a suit and tie, but the face was the same—drawn, serious, haunted.

She read the headline with a dry mouth. Crime Writer’s Evidence Sets Murderer Free. Roderick Strange to be released from prison. Victim’s family outraged.

My God! This wasn’t fantasy—it was real-life drama.

Beyond her wildest dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

WHILE THE WOMEN who ran the B and B debated in loud whispers that carried from the next room, Connor stood in the middle of the Bay House foyer and looked around with dull disinterest. Under normal circumstances, he’d have paid more attention to the stately Victorian architecture and tasteful surroundings. But it was growing impossible to focus on details. His eyeballs were scratchy and his lids seemed to be lined with lead. If they didn’t give him a room soon, he’d end up curled in a ball under the potted palm.

He took a few steps to the open doorway that led to a sunlit dining room, intending to hurry the process along. The hushed conversation stopped him.

“I won’t let you do it, Claire.” That was the older woman’s voice. Connor had momentarily forgotten her name, but she was short and round with dumpling cheeks and a severe gray braid that pulled her forehead taut.

“We have no other space to offer. I hate to turn away a guest when we’re struggling to turn a profit.”

“What about the attic? Won’t one of those rooms do?”

Claire Levander, who was the manager Tess had told him to seek out, made a discouraging sound. “Noah and Roxy are repairing the damage from last winter’s frozen-pipe burst.”

The innkeeper frowned at Claire. “I wish you’d stayed put. I didn’t have to worry about the prophecy going into action when you were living at Bay House full-time.”

Connor swayed on his feet. He was too tired to figure out riddles.

“Yeah, because Noah and I had sucked up all of Valentina’s wedding karma.” Claire gave a wry laugh. “Now that we’re living together and practically engaged, your ancestor needs a new victim.”

“Oh, you,” the older woman fretted. “Hush. That’s not the way to convince me to give Mr. Reed the bridal suite.”

Connor stepped forward, putting a hand on the door trim and clearing his throat. Both women whipped around. “I need a room,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay whatever you like. I don’t care if it’s a bridal suite as long as it has a bed.”

Claire, a thirtyish brunette who was very well put together, turned to the other woman. “Emmie—c’mon. What can it hurt if I give him Valentina’s bedroom?”

Emmie’s face puckered with indecision, but stubbornness won out. “No.” When Claire opened her mouth to protest, she repeated, “No. You know why.”

Connor’s heavy head dropped forward. He didn’t need this hassle. “Does it matter if I tell you that Tess Bucek sent me?”

The two women looked at each other for one astounded, quizzical beat. Then they turned to Connor. “Tess?” they said in unison.

Emmie’s manner did a sudden one-eighty. “Why didn’t you say so?” she cried, coming toward Connor with her arms open. She gave him a welcoming squeeze. “If you’re a friend of Tess’s, you’re a friend of mine. And you’re in luck, because the best room in the house is available.” That wasn’t what she’d been whispering ten seconds ago, but Connor wasn’t going to argue when Emmie was motioning the inn manager toward the foyer. “Claire will check you right in. Welcome to Bay House.”

With an amused smile, Claire slipped behind a handsome polished desk and retrieved the registry book. She flipped it open, studying him closely. “Here you go, Mr. Reed. Are you a particular friend of Tess’s?” Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she handed him a pen.

Connor took it and signed the book. He knew he looked disreputable at best, so why the sudden interest and approval? Was Tess’s say-so that important? Or were they setting him up for…well, he couldn’t imagine what.

“Nope,” he said. “I met her for the first time about an hour ago. In the library.”

Emmie looked less impressed, but Claire wasn’t concerned. “All the same, we’re very pleased that Tess sent you to Bay House.” She glanced at the name he’d scrawled in the registry and gave a little start.

Connor grimaced. He’d told them only his last name when he’d arrived, but had forgotten and signed his name in the guest book in its notorious entirety.

Claire snapped the book shut before Emmie could lean in for a look. Very smooth. Her smile didn’t even waver. Connor gave her full marks for discretion and for maintaining the warm reception, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was accustomed to awkward reactions. All that he hoped was that when word spread, Tess wouldn’t be besmirched by his unsavory reputation because she’d vouched for him.

A number of tagged room keys hung on a small Peg-Board on the pale gold wall. Instead of reaching for one of them, Claire took a small silver key from her pocket, opened a desk drawer and slowly withdrew a tasseled latchkey, almost as if she were a magician pulling silk scarves from a hat.

Connor was baffled by the significance. A key was a key and a room was a room. Wasn’t it?

His sense of disquiet deepened. Both women were treating him oddly—for whatever reason—but that didn’t seem to be why his scalp prickled. He glanced behind him, then up a staircase that was still grand despite its threadbare carpeting. A flash of movement on the second-floor landing was followed by a series of diminishing thumps.

“Who was that?” Connor asked.

Claire hadn’t even looked. “Only the maid.”

“Never mind her,” Emmie said hastily.

“Shari won’t bother you.” Claire’s voice had gone up two octaves.

Connor knew she was prevaricating and found it all very curious. “She’s not related to Norman Bates, is she?”

Emmie reared back. “Good heavens, no!”

Claire produced a dutiful chuckle. “Mr. Reed was making a joke, Em.”

Maybe not, Connor thought, although he was prone to finding sinister implications even where there were none. A hazard of his profession, where the boy next door was likely a freckle-faced killer.

“There is no crime at Bay House,” the older woman scolded.

“Of course not.” Claire avoided Connor’s eyes so carefully he knew she was wondering if he was here to investigate a story.

“That’s good to hear,” Connor said. “Seeing as I’m on vacation—” he stressed the word for Claire’s benefit “—I’d rather not be awakened by bumps in the night.”

Claire scoffed as she came back around the desk and reached for his gym bag. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that.” Connor got the bag before she did. She straightened, giving him a genuine smile as she raised a hand to her mouth to whisper, “Shari has a heavy step.”

He nodded, liking Claire. If she’d made an instant judgment on his name, she hadn’t let it color her conduct.

“This way, Mr. Reed.” He followed Claire up the stairs as she rattled on about the history of Bay House and its owners, the Whitaker family. “I’m putting you in the bridal suite.” She put the heavy latchkey into the keyhole and cranked. “The room is named after the family’s infamous jilted bride, Valentina Whitaker. Don’t be put off by any rumors you may hear. They have little basis in reality and are purely speculation.” Claire’s eyes danced. “Or so Emmie makes me say.” She opened the door with a flourish.

“Sounds like a subject I’m not sure I want to explore.” Connor dropped his gym bag to the floor as he moved into the room. It was bright and airy, decorated with a mix of homespun—rag rugs, a folded quilt, an old-fashioned washstand—and froufrou—a crystal chandelier and a lot of photos in fussy silver frames.

“This’ll do,” he said. The best thing about the room was the bed. A big and sturdy four-poster. He could peel back the pristine linens and delicate lacy stuff and collapse.

Claire gestured. “You have a small balcony and a private bath. And, of course, Valentina.”

Connor looked at the wall she indicated. An oil-painting portrait was prominently featured above the fireplace. A serene blonde posed in her wedding gown, hands clutching a bouquet of white roses. “Uh-huh,” he said. Claire was waiting for further reaction, so he added a salute. “Nice to meet you, Valentina.”

“Nice?” Claire made a face. “That wasn’t my reaction.”

Connor turned away. “I get all kinds.”

“Oh!” Claire looked mortified. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear, making a dangling earring swing against her neck. “I didn’t mean you. Valentina’s the one I’m not comfortable wi—” She stopped, rolled her eyes, then started again. “What I meant was…”

Connor winced while she fumbled for words. For all that he told himself he didn’t care, he remained hypersensitive about other people’s reactions to him. Claire might be a rare open-minded individual, but few were immune to overwhelming public opinion. The gossip would start soon enough, and he didn’t want to put these well-meaning people in the middle.

He shot a look over his shoulder, interrupting Claire. “Listen, don’t worry. I’m not here to make trouble. I should be checking out in a couple of days.”

Claire’s face was pink and worried. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, but there was a classic grace in her strong bones, tall form and abundant curves. Up to now, her manner had been assured, so he doubted that she was normally so easily flustered. It had to be him or Valentina. And who could be disturbed by a bride, even one who’d refused to smile?

“Please, Mr. Reed. You must stay as long as you’d like. We don’t take reservations for this room, so it’s yours for an extended stay if you wish.”

“All right, thanks,” he said, unsure of his plans but wanting to erase Claire’s worried frown.

“Anything you need, please ask. Emmie and her brother, Toivo, the owners, are usually on the premises. I’m here almost every day. Breakfast is served in the dining room, or you can arrange for a tray….”

Connor nodded her out of the room, sensing that she was on the verge of asking him his business in the area if he gave her an opening. He didn’t. His face was a mask.

Finally she said good-day. He closed the door and pressed a palm to one of the raised panels, leaning all his weight against it as his heavy eyelids closed.

Finally alone. Thank God.

The funny thing was that he used to be what was commonly called a people person. Go back to his college days, even a few years ago, and he was right there in the center of it all, ready to talk and argue and laugh with anyone who showed a glimmer of a fascinating mind.

Now he was so…exhausted.

Not only from defending himself. He was tired of talk, tired of words, tired of the way both could be twisted and distorted. As if it was all just a cruel game.

Be damn grateful you’re no longer a player, he thought, but inside he knew that was a cop-out.

He’d played. And he’d lost more than he’d ever imagined.

A vital part of himself was missing.

TESS’S HEAD SWIRLED with horrific images and words as she drove to the Three Pines nursing home, twenty-five miles from Alouette on a twisty two-lane country road. The highway was a better route, but also longer and busier. She wanted time to think before seeing Connor again.

To think in peace. If she could get the awfulness out of her head.

She’d only scraped the surface of all the information available on the Internet on Connor Reed, though the majority of it—muck included—had centered on his most recent involvement with the overturning of the murder conviction against Roderick Strange. Several years ago, Strange had been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of a young woman in rural Kentucky. He’d also been suspected in several other disappearances, but there hadn’t been enough proof. Finally, in the Elizabeth Marino case, he’d been convicted and sent to prison.

Until Connor’s involvement.

Connor Reed was a very successful true-crime writer. The Alouette library had a couple of his books, including his blockbuster bestseller, Blood Kin. Even though she hadn’t read any of them—being partial to cozy mysteries over the stark and often bloody reality of nonfiction—she was surprised she hadn’t immediately recognized his name. Maybe making up her own stories about him had distracted her. Little had she known that by comparison with the truth, her imaginings were harmless.

About a year and a half ago, at the peak of the original trial, Connor had signed a ballyhooed, big-bucks contract with Scepter Publishing to write a book about Roderick Strange. According to the news reports, during the months after the man’s guilty verdict Connor had uncovered vital evidence and given it over to the courts, which ultimately led to Strange’s conviction being overturned. People had been in an uproar. There were protests, public debates, hate mail and death threats. Connor was roasted over the coals by many, defended by only a spare few.

Though he’d been invited to all the talk shows, he’d spurned the attention and made little public comment. Even that had been turned against him by those who said he was only looking to cash in by saving the inside story for his impending book.

So far, there was no book. Tess had perused the Scepter Publishing Web site, but found no firm publishing date for a work by Connor Reed. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t already written the manuscript….

She wrinkled her nose, slowing at the intersection where the country road crossed with the highway. The idea of such a book was distasteful. In good conscience, she couldn’t argue too strenuously against Connor’s turning over the evidence he’d found, as terrible as the result had been. She had more trouble with the idea of him profiting from the tragedy.

Perhaps he did, too?

The light turned green. She tapped on the gas and drove through the intersection. Then what about his other books? Those cases had also involved ugly crime, real people and grieving families.

On the other hand, who was she to be judgmental?

Tess skirted the town, finding Three Pines easily enough, as she’d visited before, delivering books to a longtime library patron who’d been in residence the previous winter. The nursing home was a horizontal structure, formed from a central hub with four wings that spoked out in a crooked H formation. She spotted Connor in the parking lot outside of Wing D, leaning against the bumper of a dusty Jeep.

Her heart gave a little jump as she pulled in beside him.

It was early evening yet, but the sun had lowered far enough to send slanting rays through the tall Norway pines that surrounded the facility. Sharp-edged shadows stretched across the paved lot, casting his brooding face in an appropriately murky light.

Tess got out of her car. “Hi!”

Connor nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

“Beautiful evening,” she said, compelled to combat her doubt with chirpiness. “You’re looking well.”

“I slept for a couple of hours.”

“And shaved.”

He touched his chin. “Just for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She maintained a cheery smile while attempting an unobtrusive evaluation. He’d changed, too, into a fresh white T-shirt and belted khakis. But he still looked sad and withdrawn.

Her heart went out to him, even though her head kept asking questions. Was Connor Reed heartless? Greedy? Or merely an average guy stuck in a bad situation?

“So you found the place okay,” he said.

“Yesiree. I’ve been here before.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “You’re Mary Sunshine.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Just weird.”

She cocked her head. “How so?”

He shrugged. “I guess it’s the Midwestern in you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not bad. Not bad at all. Just makes me think I’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.” He reached to take her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Without thinking, she withdrew, crossing her arms over her front.

Connor stopped. Looked at her for a long minute, his face darkening. Finally he shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” he said shortly, and walked toward the paths that bordered the different wings in wide gray outlines. He took the one that led to Wing D, not even looking back to see if she’d followed as he made a sharp turn and was swallowed by the shadows beneath the wide eaves of the entrance.

Tess hesitated for another moment before hurrying after him. “Look,” she said, trotting to catch up to his long strides. “I’m not—I didn’t—”

He’d stopped at the door next to an outdoor aluminum ashtray overflowing with butts. “You know who I am,” he said without looking at her.

She let out a soft sigh. “Yes.”

“You can leave right now if you don’t want to be associated with me. I understand.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

He threw a glance over his shoulder. “How come? I’m generally acknowledged to be a pretty despicable guy.”

She moved a little closer. “Maybe general knowledge isn’t what it’s cracked up to be?”

“Are you asking me a question?”

“I might be.”

“Well, now’s not the time.” He opened the door and stood aside to allow her through. “Your choice.”

She marched inside. She’d made a promise, after all.

They entered into a small reception area. An attempt had been made to improve on the sterile concrete-block look of the facility, with hunter-green paint, a couch, buffalo-plaid curtains and accessories that included duck decoys and wildlife prints. A predictable decor, but better than austerity.

A long hallway ran down the middle of the wing, with residents’ rooms on either side. There was an unstaffed reception desk near the lounge, and an empty wheelchair and a gurney parked outside one of the rooms. The place seemed deserted, except for a uniformed attendant turning a corner at the other end of the hall.

“This way,” Connor said. “Sonny’s three doors down on the left.”

An old woman with a walker poked her head into the hallway as they passed, looking both curious and eager for visitors. Tess would have stopped to chit-chat, but Connor was already disappearing into his grandfather’s room. She smiled at the woman and said hello before hurrying to catch up again.

She arrived in time to see Connor giving his grandfather a careful hug. “So you came back, eh?” the old man said.

“Told you I would. And I brought a visitor.”

A gnarled hand waved dismissal. “Bah. Visitors.”

“You might like this one.”

Tess stepped forward. “No, please, sit,” she said, when Connor’s grandfather saw her and started to rise from his chair by the window.

He didn’t listen, and straightened slowly with one hand clenched on the head of a cane. His forehead pleated with a deep scowl.

Connor steadied his grandfather’s stance. “Grandpa, this is Tess Bucek, from Alouette. Tess, my grandfather, Addison Mitchell.”

“Mr. Mitchell.” Tess offered her hand, hoping the lighthouse keeper wouldn’t bite it off.

The old man clasped it briefly, but with a strong pressure. He peered at her with eyes that were sharply blue beneath eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars. “Bucek? Don’t recall any Buceks in Alouette.”

“Right now, I’m the only one left. My parents were Tony and Annabel Bucek. I doubt you’d remember either of them, sir.”

“Good people?”

She blinked. “Acceptable, sir.”

“Sir?” He snorted. “I s’pose you can call me Sonny. Take a seat if it suits you, there.” He lowered himself to the padded chair, letting out a rusty chuckle as Tess sat and crossed her legs. “Still a ladies’ man, eh, Connor?”

“Tess is—” Connor shrugged, looking to her for help.

“Just a visitor,” she said, smoothing her skirt. No need to embarrass the old man by baldly pointing out the reason for her visit. “I met Connor today in the library. I work there.”

Sonny grunted.

Connor excused himself and went out to the hall to find another chair. His grandfather stared out the window, ignoring Tess. She looked around the room. Besides a hospital bed, there was a TV bolted near the ceiling and a small desk with a few framed pictures on it and nothing else. No reading material.

She cleared her throat.

Sonny’s eyes swiveled to her.

“Connor asked me for help,” she confided, leaning toward the old man. He was probably the prideful type who’d need reassurance that she could be discreet. “Just between us.”

Sonny’s speckled bald head wavered with a nod. “Fine by me. The boy’s been on the rocks.”

“Oh. Actually, I didn’t mean his, um, dilemma.”

“Dilemma?” Connor said, coming back in the room carrying another chair. He set it down beside his grandfather’s.

“Nothing,” Tess said brightly.

Connor glowered.

“You look just like your grandfather,” she said, teasing him a bit. In his heyday as cantankerous Old Man Mitchell, she silently added, continuing to smile sweetly as Connor got settled.

“Thanks.” He slumped back in his chair and his knee touched hers.

She sat up even straighter, edging away slightly. And got another black glower. There was no decent way to explain that she wasn’t disgusted by him—she was magnetized. Disturbed, too, in every sense.

Sonny’s lips had folded inward into a secretive sort of smile. For being nearly ninety and on death’s door, he appeared to be in fairly good shape. A silvery fringe of white hair ran from ear to ear, his eyes were clear and active, and his posture was only slightly hunched even though he moved with the deliberation of old age and arthritis. He had a lean physique like his grandson, gone to scrawniness and skin and bone. Thin, age-spotted skin stretched taut over the knobs of his knuckles where he continued to grip the cane propped beside his chair.

Either he kept up with current events on his own via the television news or he’d been told about Connor’s troubles. Tess thought it was cute how the old man had presumed she was “comforting” his grandson.

Wrong, but cute.

Although, if ever a man had looked in need of comforting…

She shifted around in her chair. Connor gave her a glance, but he kept talking with his grandfather, telling him about the trip back to Alouette and checking in to Bay House.

Sonny shook his head over the idea that the once grand house had become a bed-and-breakfast inn. “Shame. The Whitakers still there?”

“Yes, they are,” Tess said. “Emmie and Toivo. Sister and brother,” she explained to Connor, in case he didn’t realize. She’d been halfway positive he’d back out of the decision to stay at Bay House once he’d been introduced to its homey comforts and familiar hosts. He didn’t seem like a homey and familiar guy.

“Bossy and goofy, them two,” said Sonny with a scowl that was mostly for show.

Tess smiled. “You make them sound like the eighth and ninth dwarfs.” She’d have called them energetic and endearing. But then she’d only had long-distance grandparents, so that was a soft spot for her. Soft, sore…same thing.

“What about the lighthouse?” Sonny asked.

Connor made an apologetic sound. “It’s not looking so good, Grandpa. Really run-down.”

Sonny huffed. “That’s the government for you. I’da stayed if they’d have let me. Instead, I’m wasting away, good for goddamn nothing.” He deliberately turned his head to stare out the window, exuding a deep dissatisfaction.

Tess was uneasy, even more so when suddenly the old man glared at her. “I ever run you off Gull Rock?” he accused.

She gritted her teeth. When she was a child, it had been a prank among the older kids to dare each other to sneak onto the lighthouse grounds. They would make bets of how far they’d get before the lighthouse keeper caught sight of them. One boy had been famous for getting swatted in the behind by the old man’s broom.

“No, sir,” she said.

Sonny squinted skeptically.

“When you were still the light keeper, I was only—” she calculated “—about six or seven.” And frightened silly by the other kids’ stories of the legendary lighthouse hermit. No one had ever mentioned that Old Man Mitchell’s grandson had been visiting only several years back. It was probably more fun to scare each other.

“Buncha brats,” Sonny said. “Always screaming like a pack of gulls.”

“They were just being kids, Grandpa,” Connor said. “I made friends with a few of them, my summers up here.”

“Hooligans, the lot of you,” the old man groused. “Came to no good, I betcha.”

Conner smiled, though his expression remained somber. “Yeah.” He sighed. “You could be right about that.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“HE LIKED YOU,” Connor said, glancing at Tess over the top of his menu.

“The whitefish is good—” She stopped and wrinkled her nose, giving a little laugh at Connor’s faulty assessment. “Sonny liked me? How could you tell?”

They’d spent less than a half hour in the elderly man’s room, with the conversation progressing in fits and starts. Sonny Mitchell had seemed bent on being disagreeable, although Tess had detected signs of grudging approval whenever she refused to be bullied by his gruff treatment.

He had a fighting spirit, she’d decided. Sonny sought out kindred souls, and very few passed muster. Tess wasn’t sure she qualified, having grown up with the example of a mother who had no fight in her at all, and leading the uneventful life that she did.

Connor set aside the menu. “He let you stay, right?”

“Yes…”

“And he didn’t object when you mentioned visiting again in a few days.”

“No…”

“So you got further with him than anyone else has. Sonny’s always been cantankerous. Even antisocial.”

“I can’t imagine what he’s going to say when I announce that I’m there to teach him to read.”

Connor made a face. “Uh, about that…”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

He grinned at her hopefulness. “Not so fast. It’s just that I want you to go slowly with the reading lessons. Ease into it. Because I haven’t exactly told him—”

“Terrific, Connor!” She tossed her menu on top of his. “I don’t see how I’m supposed to teach him to read without his knowing that’s what I’m there for.”

A waitress arrived with their drinks. Tess took a sip of her white wine while Connor ordered the whitefish for both of them. When they’d emerged from Three Pines to a dusky sky, he’d told her to be the leader. In their separate vehicles, he’d followed her to a restaurant in downtown Marquette, a cozy place in one of the historic sandstone-and-brick buildings that overlooked the Lake Superior harbor. The view was of the marina, a redbrick bell tower and a slope of lawn that led to the harbor park, nearly empty at this hour. A rusty ore dock loomed to one side, long abandoned. They faced east, so the sky was leached of light, layered in cobalt and indigo over the lake.

“I realize the subject will have to come up.” Connor’s voice was deep and soft, but slightly rough. Mesmerizing, especially when she shut out the sounds around them and focused only on him. “Let’s just take it slowly….”

Mmm, she thought, going soft herself before she realized what was happening. She sat up straighter, blinking her eyes back to alert.

He continued. “After Sonny has accepted you, I’ll explain to him exactly why you’re visiting.”

“I think he already knows.”

“Ah. Yes, perhaps. But he won’t admit it out loud.”

“Pride?”

“And independence. He doesn’t like to ask for help, even now.”

“Runs in the family,” she said.

Connor was looking out the tall arched window to the lake. “Why would you say that? You don’t know me—except what you’ve read in newspapers and magazines.”

She chuckled. “I can draw my own conclusions, thank you.”

He turned his intense gaze on her. It was a physical thing. She felt it on her skin, in her stomach, even deep in her bones.

Oh, but she was out of practice. There’d been no provocative strangers in her life for years, aside from the ones she invented. And it wasn’t easy turning a middle-aged library guest wearing flip-flops into an international man of mystery. Most of the time, it wasn’t even worth the attempt.

“Which conclusions?” Connor’s gaze held steady and she couldn’t tell if he was teasing. “That I’m a smuggler?”

Heat shot into her face. Her cheeks must be glowing like a neon bulb. “Pardon?” she croaked, not sure that she wanted the answer. There was no way Connor should know of her nutty mental meanderings. “How…?”

“I didn’t read your mind,” he said. “You muttered it as I was leaving.”

“Ohhh.”

He studied her face, awaiting an explanation. There was a glint in his eye. So he was teasing…but she was still on the spot.

“You have to admit you looked scruffy and suspect.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really believe you were a smuggler. That was just my…” She slid a finger along the stem of the wineglass. Might as well admit it. “My crazy imagination.”

“I guess you weren’t completely wrong. According to some, I am disreputable. But not a lawbreaker, I assure you.”

“Don’t mind me. I make up these stories in my head—” She tilted it. “Nothing to do with you.”

His lips compressed on a smile. “Stories?”

“Fancies. Pure silliness. It’s nothing.”

“And I starred as a smuggler?”

“It was the lighthouse books,” she explained, amazed she was doing so, but that was the effect he had on her. Her usual caution had come unhinged. “I made up a scenario where you were a bear-organ smuggler looking for a drop point.” She skipped the part about him also being a libidinous ex-professor. “You were meeting a Chinese man at midnight to transfer the illegal cargo.”

Connor laughed in disbelief. “Tess, you’ve been stuck in that library too long. The fiction has gone to your head.”

“I know. But it’s a chicken-or-the-egg question. I’ve been exercising a wild imagination for as long as I can remember. So did I immerse myself in books because they fed it or because they created it? You see?” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a small town. Books and fantasy were always my outlet.”

He leaned forward. “An outlet would be having your own adventures, wouldn’t it?”

She threw up a hand. “Oh, no. Don’t give me that load of baloney. Just because I read doesn’t mean I don’t live. I have a full and satisfying life. I am not a pathetic weenie waiting for her real life to begin—”

“Okay, okay,” Connor said, chuckling.

She took a breath. “Sorry. I got a little heated.”

“I understand. I’m a writer—I’ve been treated to the same comments.”

Then he knew that there was some truth to them, she thought. Not that she didn’t live as thoroughly as the next person—which wasn’t saying much, as the average Alouettian was as content as a cow—but occasionally there was a sense of being an observer more than a doer. She wasn’t dissatisfied, exactly. Maybe expectant. And restless…especially today.

She looked at Connor as he lifted a pilsner glass of a golden brown ale that matched his eyes. Honestly, he was the most exciting person to walk into her life since the Alouette theater group had hired Geordie Graves to put on The Music Man and the ex-soap opera amnesiac had chosen her to play a lead role.

Oh, dear. She was a pathetic weenie.

Connor swallowed as he put down the glass. Around them, the crowded restaurant buzzed with conversation and laughter. To keep from staring at Connor, whose face fascinated her with its secrets and shadows, she let her gaze wander over other tables, the brick walls crowded with historic photos, a waitress passing by with an overflowing tray, hazel eyes with thick black lashes, the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar, a mouth that she wanted to kiss.

No, what she really wanted to do was ask Connor about his profession and how he had become involved in the Roderick Strange murder case. But he’d already exhibited reluctance, and she didn’t want him to think she was judging him. Even though a part of her was, despite her best intentions.

She sighed, wishing to be a better person.

“We’ve established that imagination was my escape,” she said. “What about you?”

He hesitated at the sound of silverware clinking and voices that rose and fell as if carried by waves. “Me? I was cursed with curiosity.”

“Cursed?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Or blessed. At the moment, I’m feeling it was a curse.” He brushed the comment away with a wry smile. “What were you escaping?”

She blinked. “There’s that curiosity of yours.”

“I can guess. Your parents.”

“Sure you can guess. I already gave you a clue, back in Sonny’s room.”

“Most people don’t call their parents ‘acceptable.’”

“What can I say? They weren’t ideal, but they weren’t terrible. No abuse or blatant dysfunction.” Did it count as abandonment if you still had your mother?

“But…?”

She gave in to his probing. The man was subtle and skilled; she wanted to talk. “Well, my dad was out of the picture.” She flicked a hand as if to shoo her father away even though their contact had been sporadic at best through her growing-up years and practically nil since then. He’d never pushed for a rapprochement in all this time, and she wasn’t willing to put herself forward for another rejection. As far as Tess knew, Tony Bucek had forgotten he even had a daughter.

“And my mother was barely functional, particularly when I was a child. She had frequent migraines—during her spells, she needed the house to be kept quiet and dark. We lived in the country, with only two neighbors. I was on my own a lot. So I developed an active imagination to keep myself amused.”

Connor gazed at her for a long, quiet moment. Even the other tables had a lull.

She thought he might use a platitude. Instead, he asked, “Did you have an imaginary friend?”

She was so surprised at his whimsy, she blurted, “Rosehip Fumblethumbs,” as the waitress arrived at their table with a basket of bread and plates of salad.

Connor asked for another beer. “There must be a reason for a name like that.”

Tess picked the onion out of her salad with the tines of her fork, moving it to the edge of her plate. “If there was, I can’t remember. I was about four.” Her father had left home; her mother was all doom and gloom. Tess had quickly learned to walk on eggshells.

Four years old and she’d begun to live small.

“Rosehip Fumblethumbs did everything I wasn’t supposed to. She scratched my mother’s records, she turned up the volume. She tore down the curtains and opened every window and door. She broke things. Bounced on the bed. Yelled out loud.” Tess stopped and laughed at her own reverie.

Connor dragged a curl of escarole through blue-cheese dressing. “Sounds like a typical kid, if you ask me.”

“I suppose so. But Rosey did have green hair, orange freckles and fairy wings. She slept outdoors, in a bed of roses. We had tea parties under the porch.”

“Vivid imaginings for a four year old.”

Tess tried to remember. “Rosey developed over the years.”

“Years?”

“She stayed around until I was at least ten.”

“That’s a long time. Most imaginary friends have shorter life spans.”

“You’re an authority, are you?”

Connor grinned. “You caught me. I’m talking out my ear.”

“No imaginary friends of your own?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Even at the lighthouse? It must have been lonely there.”

“Yeah, at times. But I considered it an adventure, even when the road was washed out and we had no electricity. My grandfather was a widower by then, so life at the lighthouse had become rather rough and undomesticated. Perfect for a ten-year-old boy.”

Growing up, Tess had longed for a normal life with fancy guest soaps, home-baked chocolate-chip cookies, seasonal holiday decorations and waxed floors scattered with rag rugs. The sort of domestication she observed at friends’ houses, when her own mother could barely summon the strength to climb out of bed and go to work. When she’d discovered the boisterous closeness and comfort at the Johnsons’, she’d believed that she had finally come home.

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