Sally mumbled a thank-you. She struck Piper as even more reserved and formal than usual, her tendency when under stress. Although they weren't really friends, they'd known each other forever; Sally was a part of Frye's Cove because of her grandfather, Jason Frye, and her frequent visits to the Frye house. When feeling squeezed, Sally always fell back on good manners, something Piper couldn't say for herself—her behavior with Clate that morning a case in point.
She did have enough manners to offer to absent herself while Sally and Hannah talked, but Sally shook her head. "No, stay, Piper. I have nothing to say that you can't hear." Her smile faltered, and she twisted her unmanicured hands together. "Hannah, I've heard about the tincture Stan Carlucci found, and I wanted to let you know that I spoke up in your favor. Paul, of course, is keeping an open mind, but I know you'd never deliberately poison or harass anyone."
"Thank you, Sally. I appreciate your confidence in me."
"It's not that Paul lacks confidence—"
"You don't have to explain. I understand. He's trying to remain neutral."
"Yes." She looked relieved. "That's it."
Hannah smiled wryly. "Perhaps someone else in town is concerned with Mr. Carlucci's digestion."
"Or he made up the whole thing because he doesn't like you," Piper muttered.
"I don't think Stan's that devious or clever," Sally said, then blushed at her own impolitic words. "Not that I'm judging him. He's been so supportive of the inn and our move to Frye's Cove."
"I do give him credit for that," Hannah said.
Sally smiled, visibly relaxing. She'd always had a cordial, but not a close, relationship with her grandfather's second wife; she didn't understand Hannah the way Piper did. "I just wanted you to know, Hannah, that I—that Paul and I wish you nothing but the best."
"You're both very sweet," Hannah said. "Thank you for taking the time to stop by. How's the inn?"
They chatted for a few minutes, Sally becoming almost animated as she related the latest news on the Macintosh Inn. She and Paul were working on getting a piece on the inn and its colorful history—especially the Macintoshes—into one of the country living magazines. After his initial uncertainty about their move to Cape Cod, Paul was now fully committed. "He loves Frye's Cove," Sally said. "Not in the same way I do, of course. I feel as if... I don't know, as if I've finally come home."
After she left, Piper followed Hannah into the kitchen. "How come I don't get to be sweet?" Hannah scoffed. "Because you're not. You're a heel dragger."
"Not anymore. Clate dug under the wisteria. He says there's no treasure."
"Do you believe him?"
To her surprise, Piper didn't hesitate. "Yes, I do. He's rich enough on his own not to care about your treasure, but that's not why I believe him."
"Some people can never have enough. But you're right. Money isn't what drives him. He wants to find a home, a place where he belongs, but he's looking in all the wrong places." A flash of mischief in her old eyes. "Until now, of course."
"He's not looking for anything but relaxation in Cape Cod. That's why I believe him. The sooner he finds the treasure or proves it doesn't exist, the sooner he can get back behind his No Trespassing signs and stay there."
Hannah shook her head. "That's what you want to believe because it's less scary for you. No," she went on, checking a pot on her stove, "the reason you believe him is because your soul, the very essence of who you are, knows he's telling you the truth."
"Hannah, are you going to start talking about my destiny again?"
"No. There's no need. Your destiny was determined the moment Clate Jackson bought the Frye house." She inhaled her pot of a whitish, creamy substance. "This is an infusion of chamomile flowers and milk. Lovely, isn't it? It's wonderful for the skin and so relaxing. It needs to sit for a little while longer, but I'll give you a jar when it's ready."
"That'd be nice." She peered over Hannah's shoulder into her double boiler. "I'd like to learn enough about herbal creams and lotions to teach a class next summer."
Hannah beamed. "I'd be delighted to teach you." Without glancing around or giving any indication she was changing the subject, she said, "Stan Carlucci's suspicions about me and these phone calls you've been receiving have upset you. I'm sorry I called you a heel dragger. I wonder if it might not be wise to hold off on the treasure search for now."
"What?" Piper was instantly suspicious. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
Hannah stirred her chamomile-and-milk concoction, then retreated to her little kitchen table, suddenly looking even older than eighty-seven, no mean feat. "I can't let my urgency about the past hurt you now, in the present. That would be wrong."
"Are you worried about these calls?"
"Yes. Yes, Piper, I am."
Piper was silent.
Her aunt appraised her, eyes clear, determined to see what they had to see, kerchief in place over her snow-white hair. "Why, Piper Macintosh. Shame on you. You thought I might have placed those calls."
"No!"
"Then explain."
Hannah had always had a disturbing ability to read her only niece. Piper paced in the small, attractive kitchen. "I just worried someone else might think you'd placed them."