a thirty-something blonde whom Cathryn recognized only vaguely. She certainly wasn’t a permanent resident of Harmony. After exchanging a few words with Sarah, the newcomer approached Tucker, who happened to be talking with Dylan.
The woman was sleek, graceful and attractive in a wealthy sort of way. She’d given her coat to Sarah at the door, and now stood before the two men in a cowl-necked, black, angora knit dress that made an absolute drama of her rich blond hair, peaches-and-cream complexion and turquoise eyes. It didn’t exactly detract from her figure, either. Cathryn felt like a frump in comparison, dressed in her high-collared Victorian blouse, gray cardigan and calf-length challis skirt.
For some irrational reason, she also felt she was needed at her husband’s side.
The woman extended her hand to Tucker. “Mr. Lang,” she said, her tone as soft and smooth as the angora that enveloped her, “I was unable to attend your uncle’s funeral, but I couldn’t let the day go by without coming over to offer my sympathy.”
“Thank you,” Tucker replied, one eyebrow arched and betraying the fact that he had no idea who she was.
“Zoe Anderson,” she said, introducing herself. “I have a summer home out on Sandy Point, and for the past three years I’ve trusted no one but Walter with my Land Rover. He was a marvelous mechanic. Marvelous. I’ll miss him terribly.”
Tucker’s eyebrow lifted higher. “You’re a cottager?”
“Yes. From New York.”
“What are you doing on Harmony at this time of year?”
She laughed musically. “The island has its charms, even in winter. In fact, lately I find myself spending as much time here during the off-seasons as I do during the summer.” Unexpectedly she turned her smile on Dylan. “Of course, this man knows all about that. Don’t you, Mr. McGrath?”
Cathryn glanced sharply at her husband. His face was flushed and he was widening his eyes at the woman. Cathryn was well acquainted with the expression, but didn’t understand it in its present context.
“Dylan is my landscape architect,” Zoe Anderson continued, her quick survey of Cathryn leaving her feeling invisible.
Cathryn glanced at her husband again. “Landscape architect?” she questioned him. Just when she’d adjusted to his upgrade from a simple landscaper to a landscape designer… he was changing what he called himself again?
Dylan shrugged self-consciously, avoiding her eyes.
“Last year,” the Anderson woman continued animatedly, “we made extensive changes to the backyard. New perennial borders, trees, arbors, walkways. It’s breathtaking. This spring we’ll be overhauling the front.”
“And that’s—” Dylan paused to clear his voice which seemed unusually dry and squeaky. “And that’s no mean feat, considering Ms. Anderson’s front yard is more than an acre.”
“But Dylan has been coming up with marvelous ideas. I hope you don’t mind how much time he’s spending on my project, Mrs. McGrath.”
Cotton-mouthed, Cathryn replied, “No. Why should I mind?”
The woman laughed, shaking back her hair, and suddenly Cathryn discovered there was a very good reason why she should mind.
There on Zoe Anderson’s earlobes sparkled Cathryn’s Valentine earrings.
She lost her ability to speak, to move, even to breathe. All she could do was stare at the familiar eight-hundred-dollar earrings. And there was no doubt in her mind they were the same ones. The setting was just unusual enough to be distinctive.
All at once Cathryn remembered the card, the intimate verse, the romantic phrases, and nausea brought the taste of bile to her mouth.
Someone touched her arm and quietly asked, “Are you all right?”
Mechanically she turned and saw that the person addressing her was Tucker. Remembering where she was, she concentrated on composing herself and nodded with a reassuring smile. “Just a little queasy. I…I’ve been fighting symptoms of the flu all morning.”
“Come sit down,” Tucker said, urging her toward the sofa.
“No, I think…” She glanced at Dylan and caught him exchanging a look with the other woman that seemed too familiar, too fraught with communication. “I think I’ll just go home.”
Dylan escorted her to the van with a solicitous arm around her waist, but it wasn’t concern she saw in his handsome, square-jawed face. It was fear. And guilt.
“Who is she?” Cathryn asked, her voice as shaky as her legs.
“Who?”
“That woman. Zoe Anderson.”
“She’s…a cottager. From New York. Weren’t you listening?”
“Yes, but who is she to you?”
He pulled in his chin, in innocence and perplexity. “To me? She’s a client, Cath. A client with a job big enough to pay for that sunroom you’ve always wanted.” He helped her into the van, went around to the driver’s side, and they started toward home under a cloud of tension, which he tried to dispel by turning on the radio and humming along with the song that was playing.
I should let it go, Cathryn thought. I could’ve made a mistake. Zoe Anderson might very well own earrings exactly like the ones I found. Although they were unusual, surely they weren’t unique. Besides, this is Dylan I’m having doubts about. Dylan.
But the windshield wipers hadn’t even had enough time to clear a decent wedge of road grit off the window when Cathryn decided she had to keep asking. She had to find out for certain who Zoe Anderson was. She wouldn’t rest easy until she did.
By the time Dylan was steering into their driveway, Cathryn had her answer. She stumbled from the van, heading for the house, but made it only as far as the walkway before doubling over and throwing up.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON Tucker set off with the back seat of his rental car rattling with cookware and serving dishes. Sarah had suggested waiting. She said he was tired and should get some rest. The neighbors who’d brought over food were bound to drop by eventually to reclaim their dishes. And even if they didn’t, he could always return them later in the week.
Trouble was, Tucker wasn’t planning to be around later in the week. There was a little woman in St. Louis who needed to be sweet-talked into marrying him, and the sooner he got to it the better. Right after Sarah had wrapped the last leftover, declared the kitchen suitably neat, buttoned up her overcoat and toddled on home, he’d put himself in gear and packed the car. There was still too much to do.
Returning cookware was the least of it. Far more complicated was the chore of sorting through his uncle’s belongings and deciding what to keep, what to throw out, what to sell or give away. That could drag on for days. Then there was the house itself. Walter had left it to him, and while Tucker was deeply moved by his generosity, the gift didn’t come without its problems—most notably, selling it. The garage presented problems, too, maybe more so than the house. Finding a buyer for a house wasn’t unusual. But for an auto repair shop?
Sure, he could put off returning pans and dishes, but anything he could knock off the list now would be one less thing standing between him and his leaving Harmony.
Tucker decided to drop off the items that belonged to Cathryn McGrath first, since they took up most of the back seat. He was also a little curious to know how she was feeling.
With an up-to-date map of the island on the seat beside him and West Shore Road highlighted with yellow marker, he set off toward what should have been a setting sun. Unfortunately a gloomy gray blanket of mist continued to muffle the island, and the only evidence he saw of the sun existed in a paler shade of gray to the west.
Still, the landscape wasn’t without its beauty, in a stark and empty way. Tucker turned off the radio and cracked open a window to