Coffee in hand, he marched down the slope, through the break in the hedge, and along the path up to her house.
He stood on the spotty grass next to her vegetable garden with its flourishing tomato plants, its mounds of summer squash and zucchini, its rows of peas, their ripe, heavy pods hanging thickly, as if eager to be picked. Wind rustled in the tall marsh grasses, and he could hear the trill of a strange bird as he soaked in a world so very different from his own. He thought of his sprawling office high in the luxury hotel he had built, the bustle of staff, the high-tech equipment. Piper had made bread in a beehive fireplace oven yesterday morning.
"My mama don't cook much, Mrs. Bryar."
"I know she doesn't, Clayton. You just eat all you want. You picked that corn yourself. You should be proud. Enjoy your meal and be thankful for these little things in life."
His eyes stung, his pain so fierce, so unexpected, that all the fury went out of him. Irma Bryar had taught him the power of the individual, the strength that could come out of adversity. She had understood that he couldn't rely on his family, couldn't even rely on her. She was too old already when she'd taken him under her wing, too uncertain about her own future to do more than help him learn to rely on himself, to trust that courage and a sense of honor would see him through almost anything.
He walked around front and saw that Piper's bicycle was gone. She wasn't home. He finished his coffee breathing in the scent of her roses on her white picket fence. What did Piper Macintosh want from life?
"Drop it," he muttered under his breath.
He headed back through the hedges and examined the area of digging under tall, weedy-looking plants. If this was Piper's work, he thought he'd have sensed her presence during the night or that she would have seen to it he did. She'd have tripped, struck a stone with her shovel, accidentally whistled, somehow goaded him into coming out and catching her one more time.
She was like that, daring, willing to play with fire, never mind that she didn't know that the fire she was playing with this time was too damned hot for her own good.
For his, either.
He supposed the damage could be the work of dogs or raccoons or some other Cape Cod animal. That was how Piper would dismiss it. In her world, the idea that it could be the work of someone who didn't wish her well, who didn't have her best interests at heart, just didn't fit.
In Clate's world, it fit quite well. Whoever had made those calls warning her to stay off his property could easily have snuck into his yard last night and tried his hand at digging for buried treasure.
Piper eyed the something-or-other tea Hannah had served her on the deck of her townhouse. It wasn't tea colored. It was more the color of swamp water. Hannah had claimed it was ordinary herb tea, which could mean anything.
"Oh, stop glowering at it and drink it," she said, plopping down on a cushioned chair. She sat in the sun. She was old, she maintained, and got chilled easily, and she figured if she didn't have skin cancer by now, if she got it, she wouldn't live long enough to die of it. Not that she'd left much uncovered for ultraviolet light to do its damage. She had on a blue gingham dress and floppy hat that made her look a bit like Old Mother Hubbard. "It's a perfectly neutral tea."
"Why's it this color?"
Hannah leaned forward, peering at Piper's cup. "Hm. I'm not sure."
"That's encouraging."
"I wonder..." She frowned. "I might not have poured from the right pot. I'm trying a new tea for my digestion, and perhaps—I hope I haven't mixed them up."
"You and me both. Why are you so preoccupied with your digestion?"
"Ask that question when you're my age. Neither tea will hurt you. You know that. It's just an inconvenience if I've mixed them up. So just drink and enjoy."
Piper thought of Stan Carlucci. "There's nothing wrong with my digestion. Anyway, I'm not thirsty."
Hannah sat back in her chair, clearly disgruntled. "You always used to sample my teas. Even when you knew you wouldn't like one, you'd at least try it. Do you think I'd give you something that would harm you?"
"No, of course not." But she made herself add, "Not intentionally."
"Oh, I see. I'm just so dotty I can't be trusted."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
Piper set her teacup on the small table between them. "Hannah, even you have to admit you're more into this herbal remedy stuff than you used to be. Before, it was a choice between Twinings and Celestial Seasonings. You know, Earl Grey or Red Zinger. Now..." She stared at her cup of swamp-colored liquid and teaspoon of honey. "I just worry that in your enthusiasm to apply this new knowledge, you get a little carried away sometimes."
Hannah snorted. "Nonsense. If anything, I'm overly cautious."