"So, you heard."
"Oh, I heard." He didn't sound at all happy about what he'd heard.
"Well, she didn't conjure him up. She just thinks she did."
"What do you think?"
She rolled up the magazine and shoved it into her knapsack, aware of Andrew's probing gaze, accustomed to it. Together, he, Benjamin, and their father knew the bad habits of every man in town and half on Cape Cod. "Be serious. I don't believe in all her spells and potions."
"Just don't let her get you in over your head. You know how you are with her."
"Andrew—"
"Relax. I'm not criticizing. We all know you and Hannah have a special bond. We understand. She was your anchor after Mother's death in a way none of us ever could be. So, don't get your back up."
Piper sniffed at him. "You aren't any more objective about her than I am."
"Maybe not, but I never would have dug valerian root for her at the crack of dawn, never mind if it didn't involve trespassing. Which it did."
"That was an innocuous favor."
"Yeah. Sure. Read the article on your neighbor, Piper. Then we'll talk about what's innocuous and what's crazy."
He rolled off, and Piper made a face just as if she were four years old and her big brother had pulled her out of a tree she'd been climbing. At least neither he nor Benjamin pulled any punches with her. They were straightforward in their opinion that she needed them in her life to keep her from walking off the plank and landing in shark-infested waters, figuratively speaking. They'd defend her without question, and for that she was grateful. It was just their insistence on prevention—on defending her before anything had happened—that annoyed her.
She gave Andrew time to get well ahead of her, then started down the road, welcoming the warm sun, the rain-scrubbed air, the smell of pitch pine and ocean, and wondering what he'd have thought if he knew Clate Jackson had kissed his baby sister last night.
Clate stared at the shadows on the low, slanted ceiling of the upstairs bedroom he had chosen as his own. It was a cool, quiet, still night. His room had a view out across the marsh to the bay, which was all he cared about. The antique furnishings and the quaint decor didn't interest him. Half awake in the shifting darkness, he was eerily aware that virtually nothing in this house was his. Everything belonged to him, but that was something different. He felt like a guest, as if he were sleeping in someone else's bedroom.
An owl hooted in the distance. He could hear the wash of the tide. Hell, what was he doing this far north, this far from his office, his routines, his dogs? He'd left his two big mutts at home with the caretaker while he checked out Cape Cod.
Maybe that damned scrawny old woman had put a spell on him.
After watching a troubled Piper Macintosh head up through the marsh, he'd checked with his office, made some calls, and tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a summer up here, the routine, day-to-day operating of his business in the hands of trusted associates.
But there weren't too many people he trusted.
Tuck O'Rourke had come over around noon, and they'd discussed his plans to repair the damage, erosion, and wear and tear he'd spotted outside. Some projects would be simple and quick, others costly and time consuming. Clate was still debating what he wanted Tuck to do. He didn't know why he was hesitating, he knew what needed to be done. But he couldn't dispel an image of himself with shirt off, sweat pouring down his back, as he did the work himself. When he'd first rolled down out of the hills to Nashville, he'd had nothing going for him but his strong back and willingness to work. He had the scars to prove how hard he'd worked. Until now, he hadn't missed physical labor. He couldn't say why he did. Or, really, if he did.
He pushed the thought aside. He hated obsessing on things in the middle of the night. Yet he was wide awake, sleep eluding him.
He and Tuck had also discussed the Macintosh family. Despite O'Rourke's taciturn nature, he talked readily about the people he'd known all his life. From their conversation, Clate gained a better understanding of Piper's attachment to her elderly great-aunt. She had lost her mother at two and had latched onto Hannah as her central female role model, and a bizarre one at that, especially in the years since Jason Frye's death. Her nineteenth-century dresses and witchy ideas were legendary in Frye's Cove, and she had a penchant for leading Piper down the so-called primrose path. There'd been various incidents with experimental teas and possible spells.
Then there were her brothers, who had apparently combated their own grief over their mother's death by becoming very protective of their much younger sister. From what Clate could gather, her romantic life had suffered as a result—at least in townspeople's minds.