"Correct. A man with your money and reputation—" She shook her head and trotted down the front steps to where she'd left her bicycle, unlocked. Come July and August, she'd be more cautious. "Not a chance. People still insist on thinking you'll tear down the Frye house and put in a ritzy resort just as soon as you can sneak it by the review boards."
He'd followed her down the steps into the shade of a huge old maple, a rarity on Cape Cod since many of the early settlers had denuded the forests. "What about you? What do you believe?"
"I tend to believe what people tell me until I have reason to do otherwise." She pulled on her helmet, hooked it under her chin. "But my brothers think I'm too trusting."
"I operate the same way," he said softly, moving from the shade, "and nobody's ever said I'm too trusting."
She grinned. "That's because you have more scars than I do."
"The life of a construction worker with a bad temper." But he didn't smile, a seriousness coming over him. "I wanted to tell you, I went to see your aunt this afternoon."
"Alone? Why?"
"To talk to her. She offered me tea, which I declined, and wc had a nice chat on her back deck." He drew a finger along the handlebar of her bike. "Piper, I don't think she's told you everything she knows. I think she's holding back something."
"What? Why would she hold back? I'm doing her a favor."
"I don't know why, I just believe she is. It wasn't anything concrete, but I came away with the distinct impression that if she's not exactly playing us for fools, she's at least slipped a few cards up her sleeve."
"You told her I'd confided in you?"
He dropped his hand to his side. "She already knew."
"Did she know as in you think I told her, or did she know as in.. .well, as in she just knew."
He bit off a sigh. "The latter."
"That's silly."
"Then you told her?"
"No, but she probably just took one look at your face and leaped to the conclusion that I'd told you about the treasure. You're not that hard to read, you know, especially when you're on a tear." At his amused look, she climbed onto her bicycle. "Not that I know you that well, of course. But you don't know my aunt."
"She's not telling you everything, Piper."
She waved a hand in dismissal. "So, what else is new? Look, you caught me at a vulnerable moment last night. I don't think well on that little sleep." Or after kissing a man in the starlight. "I should have been more circumspect. Please don't go tearing uptown and pestering people on my account. I don't need this thing to get any more out of hand than it already is. Right now, I can handle Hannah's treasure and the calls—which for all I know have ended, I might add—on my own."
He settled back on his heels, unperturbed. "And what are you doing to handle everything besides baking bread and teaching open-hearth cooking?"
She eyed him. "Making strawberry-rhubarb jam."
Before she could let his growl of impatience get to her, she eased off on her bicycle, pedaling hard, trying not to wonder if he was standing there on the sidewalk appraising her behind.
* * *
Chapter 8
Tempted to head straight to Hannah's townhouse to find out what else she and Clate might have discussed outside her presence, Piper instead wound her way to her favorite road along the water, where it was cool and beautiful and where Frye's Cove's few summer people were out enjoying the scenery. She passed other cyclists, in-line skaters, walkers, cars with out-of-state plates. Tourists tended to cluster near the town's limited beaches, bypassing the village to stay in more popular nearby towns that better catered to their needs.
When the Macintosh Inn was fully opened, that would change to a degree, but it was too small to make much of an impact. A Clate Jackson resort on his waterfront property could dramatically change the character of the town, and certainly of her quiet road, but Piper wanted to believe his declaration that he had no interest in building on Cape Cod.
By the time she coasted back along her road, she was sweaty and aching, but her spirits were revived. Seeing how Clate had already been out to see Hannah, Piper could put off her own visit to explain her abortive foray under the wisteria. Instead, she'd cut rhubarb, cap her strawberries, and round off a perfect afternoon with jam making.
Once she got rid of Paul Shepherd and Stan Carlucci, she thought with a groan as she spotted them standing in her gravel driveway. They'd come in Paul's car. They'd passed her on the dead-end road, but she'd hoped they were just checking on something in the wildlife refuge. Traffic wasn't unheard of on her road, and she seldom paid attention to cars belonging to locals.
Their grave expressions gave her a start. She pushed down her kickstand and climbed off her bicycle. Stan was a big, balding man in his late fifties. Although she disagreed with him on almost everything, and on a personal level considered him pompous and arrogant, she had to admit he cared about their town and was willing to do the difficult work of sitting on the board of selectmen. Hannah, as much as she grumped about not getting her way, had steadfastly refused to run for office.
"We need to talk to you, Piper," he said. "It's about Hannah."