"I suppose it's possible, but it's unlikely. Presumably if it was an accident, this good Samaritan would have gone for help. Instead, it was hours before anyone realized a ship was stuck."
"All right. Suppose the guy with the lantern initially wanted to help. The ship hits the sandbar, he goes out to do what he can, but by the time he gets there, there's nothing he can do to help your aunt's parents. He's too late. He decides he might as well have a look at their belongings—"
"Finds the treasure and helps himself."
"Exactly."
"So he'd be a vulture stealing from dead people, not a murderer. I don't know. For the past eighty years, everyone around here has believed that Caleb and Phoebe Macintosh were lured to their deaths by a mooncusser."
He frowned. "A mooncusser?"
"They're sort of a Cape Cod legend. They'd use a lantern to deliberately strand ships, then rob them and leave them to fend for themselves. I'm not sure how many actual incidents of mooncussing occurred, but the legend persists."
"Your basic land pirate."
"I guess you could say that."
"No mention of Russian treasure in the account you read?"
Piper didn't like his disbelieving tone. "No, but I'm not finished with my research." She heard the defiance in her own voice and leaned against the counter, feeling her fatigue now, the aching in her mind and body. "Missing jewels and Faberge eggs. I know it sounds far-fetched. But Hannah—" She sighed. How could she possibly explain her elderly aunt to a man who had as low a tolerance for whim and fancy as Clate?
"Repressed memory is fairly unreliable from what I understand," he said, skeptical but not unkind. "This could be some fantasy your aunt's created to get closure on a traumatic event in her childhood. Her motives may be above reproach, but it doesn't mean she saw a thing that night."
"I think she knows that. I think she's just trying to sort out what's real and what's not."
"But it's been eighty years."
Piper thrust out her chin. "That's why she can't wait any longer."
"Okay." Some of his skepticism eased, but Piper had no illusions that he was relenting. He'd come to Cape Cod for privacy and quiet, not unraveling an old mystery. "Suppose I allow that she's really trying to sort out a haunting memory—even one she's only recently, and rather conveniently, recalled—it's still a big leap to think there's treasure buried under my wisteria. Even if she saw what she thinks she saw, the chances of that chest or whatever it was still being out there are next to none."
"I know," Piper said, fatigue overwhelming her. "I could have just told her I'd dug out there and didn't find anything, but—"
"But she deserves more than that from you," Clate finished.
His answer surprised her. "Yes, I guess that's it. She's always been there for me."
"And you for her."
Piper sucked in a breath. She was tired. That was why she was feeling so emotional. She knew Hannah wouldn't live forever. She only wanted her to live out whatever was left of her life happily, finally with the answers to what she'd seen, or what she thought she'd seen, that night at age seven. Piper knew she couldn't be objective where her aunt was concerned. But was her devotion to Hannah so obvious that even a man new to Frye's Cove, who wanted nothing to do with the people there, saw it?
He broke the silence. "Irma Bryar, the woman whose funeral I went home for, was that kind of presence in my life. I understand your loyalty, Piper."
"Was she your aunt?"
He shook his head. "Just an old woman in town, a retired teacher, who took an interest in a bad-mannered kid on all the wrong roads to all the wrong places."
"You miss her," Piper said with conviction, suddenly seeing past the hardness of the man, straight into his heart. An old friend had died, and he mourned her passing.
"We weren't as close as you and your aunt are. We had a different kind of connection." He got to his feet, moved toward her. "But if she'd asked, I'd have gotten my shovel and gone onto my neighbor's property to dig under a wisteria." A flash of humor. "I'm not sure I'd have worn a getup like yours, though."
As he came closer, Piper noticed the scars, the signs that life hadn't always been easy for him, Irma Bryar notwithstanding. She smiled. "I don't know. I can see you in a ruffled shirt—"
"You're exhausted, Piper." He touched her hair, trailed the back of his hand down her cheek. "Come on, I'll walk you home."
"I can manage on my own."
He laughed. "Don't get your back up, sweetheart. I'm not trying to snatch your independence from you. I'm not one of your brothers, I assure you."
"No kidding. They'd string up you and me both if they could see us now."
"Never mind the kiss?"
Her grin broadened. "They'd string us up and shoot us if they knew about the kiss."
"They look after you."
"They have their good points, meddling in my life not being one of them. Anyway, we can blame the kiss on adrenaline, circumstances, the night air. Whatever."
"Why blame it on anything?"
She licked her lips, remembering the taste of his. "Because it's the smart thing to do. Better yet, I'm just going to pretend it never happened."