Chapter 31 #2
Besides the injuries, he looks annoyingly dapper in a shirt with a gathered yoke, loosely tucked into brushed cotton trousers with suspenders. I sear my gaze into his stubbly chin. “It would help if you looked less like a villain. Did your manly maneuverings scare off Prosper from your date?”
“On the contrary, I think she was quite impressed. Impressionable young ladies love seeing frustrated lovers fight for a lady’s nod. She applied my arnica compress with such tender fingers.”
I snort. “How touching. What about impressionable business clients? SSI is now in worse shape because of you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” He actually looks remorseful, lashes curtaining his fallen gaze, mouth grimacing.
I bet he’s a fine kisser too. “Koa and I have a bit of a history, as you know. I let it interfere with my good judgment. Please, come in.” He opens the door wider and gestures into the living room.
At the sight of the leather couch, I am instantly reminded of the last time I sat there, the day my dress tried to kill me. I blush and wrap my arms firmly around my chest. The living room is full of paintings stacked against the green-papered walls. “No, thank you. What time is our outing?”
“We shall be picking Miss Tavernish-Cooper up from Eastsound Harbor at two.” He notices my interest in the paintings. “I told you my mother was quite an artist. Like you. Would you like to see them?”
Despite my misgivings, I step over the threshold, drawn in by the watercolors, oils, pastels, and sketches done in a finer hand than mine.
“They’re exquisite.” I kneel on a sherpa rug by the fireplace, where honey-scented candles burn. The works range from the whimsical—a comet shooting over a blue-pink sky, mirrored in the turquoise water—to realistic sketches of fishermen. “Why do you have all these out?”
“Our agent has sold Mother’s lesser favorites, and I need to send them along.”
An oil painting of two teenage girls on a beach catches my eye. They are dressed in colorful, loose dresses, their arms bare. One is in profile, with her strong Sanders nose and piercing blue eyes. Her dark blond hair is adorned with flowers. “That’s your mother.”
“Yes.” Nash lowers himself next to me, wincing as he bends.
The other girl seems lost in thought. Her dark chestnut hair falls over her rounded shoulders in a loosed braid. Large expressive eyes, a straight nose, and a pouting mouth tug at my memory. Nash flips the painting over, where on the other side, Viridian has written, Girls on the Beach, 1895.
“Who is she?”
“I’m not sure. Definitely not Aunt Lydia.” He carefully sets the painting back down.
“She reminds me of someone. Temperance Tavernish-Cooper,” I say.
“Yes, you’re right.” His gaze feathers my cheek.
I’m suddenly too aware of his closeness, the sound of his breath making my own breathing shallow. I stand, feigning interest in a coffee-table vase that contains no flowers, only a single black flannel tennis ball. “Last night I saw you give an envelope to our footman. Why?”
He pulls himself off the floor, and together we stare at the coffee table, as if it is a puddle in which we are trying to see our reflections.
“Your footman. Right. Before I left for Seattle, he asked me to deliver a substantial amount of money to his agent there. I was just giving him his receipt.”
“Why not have Banker wire it?”
He rubs his chin. “That takes time, and he was desperate that his nieces receive the funds as soon as possible. Their father died, you see.”
“How unfortunate.” I never thought of Yates having a life outside of Nowhere, but of course it’s common for Nowhere employees to send money home. “How much money?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred!”
“Is that significant?”
“That is exactly the amount Shimmelfen stole. They were pinochle partners.”
He twists his mouth to one side. “Then perhaps Shimmelfen was stealing for Yates. I’m philosophically opposed to coincidence because it feels a little lazy.”
I was simply borrowing the funds for a good cause, Shimmelfen said. Was Yates the good cause? And, after being denied the funds, did Yates then kill Mr. Sanders in a fit of anger? I wouldn’t think the slow-footed Yates had it in him.
But he did have a third pinochle partner, who is a former lumberjack: Buddy.
My brain twists itself into knots. Could Buddy have killed Mr. Sanders? The three men—Yates, Buddy, and Shimmelfen—were close. Friends? Or more than? Did the self-restrained butler seek vengeance for the disgraced valet?
“A nickel for your thoughts?” says Nash.
“Why do you keep a tennis ball in your vase?”
He lets out a soft chuckle, lashes flickering. “Why do you think?”
I feel a nervous squeeze in my belly. Is the ball a keepsake of our kiss on the court?
Or is he playing with me once again? Blood rushes to my head, making my temples pound.
Watching his chest move with his breath, I fight an insane urge to press myself against him, the way we lay on the tennis court.
I remember everything in excruciating detail.
How one moment I had my ear to his lips, listening for breath, and the next he pulled my head close and pressed his mouth to mine.
I felt his voice catch in my throat, the pearly smoothness of his teeth.
He rolled me over, and the world shifted a little on its axis.
His forearms pressed the pavement on either side of my head, his hip bones heavy but not smothering.
He gazed down at me, and a look of pure wonder lit his face.
Without a word passing between us, he began kissing me again.
After that brush, I became invisible to him.
“Lucy,” he says, reaching for me.
Arm’s length, I remind myself, stepping back. An heiress should be in charge of her emotions. Mine feel like they’re dragging me around by the collar. “I will see you at the marina at one thirty.”